


The Sidhe Prince

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Female Gwaine, M/M, Magic, Merlin Big Bang Challenge, Prejudice, Prince Merlin, Self-Sacrifice, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Prince Merlin of Avalon visits Camelot, King Arthur is confident that everything will run smoothly. He does not expect to come face to face with a destiny that never was, or to find his most closely guarded secrets unravelling around him. Merlin disarms Arthur with his unexpected charm, lays bare his charade as easily as if Arthur's whole kingship were made of glass, and accompanies him on a journey which will change Camelot forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2013 Merlin Big Bang. Canon AU which explores Arthur's unique relationship with magic (this story is pretty much an ode to Arthur). Please note that the Welsh Calan Gaeaf festival actually takes place in November, not September. In this fic you will find some discussion of misogynistic experiences and one use of "queer" in its archaic sense.
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta, Christina, my cheers, Lucas, Raquel and Laura, and my friends, Cee, MJ, Lenka, Aly, Becca and Kit. There is one art piece for this story, curtesy of Chelsea, who came up with something in just a few days after my original artist dropped out. Full notes can be found on the [LiveJournal masterpost](http://quitelikeit.livejournal.com/7885.html). Chelsea's art post is [here](http://achelseabee.livejournal.com/2712.html). You can also find a podfic download at the masterpost.

Remembering to breathe took Arthur almost an entire minute. His mind was fuzzy with incomprehension and his eyes were glazing over, his entire existence failing to focus on anything but the thud of his heart and the swirls of golden light in the air before him. It was magic as he had never seen it before - not magic that was intent on stealing or burning or hurting, but magic that simply _was._

The thin strands of weightless gold were lighting the room, casting soft shadows behind the chests and cabinets and reflecting in the dull gleam of Arthur’s half full goblet of wine, sitting forgotten on the table. When he tried to focus on the pattern of magic, it scorched itself into his memory, leaving an imprint of beauty and strength and naked terror which Arthur didn’t think would ever truly fade from him.

He blinked, dazed with shock, and when he opened his eyes again it was to find the air empty of light. The only thing left before Arthur was Morgana, her back still pressed to the door and her hands still braced at her sides against the wood, staring at him with a mixture of challenge and fright in her eyes - eyes which were quickly fading from gold to green.

The silence was deafening. If he had ever taken a moment to imagine this - to imagine that his sister, his beloved, trusted sister, would one evening slip into his chambers, lock the door and fill the room with a wash of power using only the light in her eyes - then Arthur might have expected a roaring shock in his ears; he might have expected to feel like his stomach had been wrenched through the floor or like his chest was squeezing too tight around his heart.

Arthur didn’t feel any of that. All he felt was the chill of silence echoing through his chambers and the shiver that each of Morgana’s quiet, shaking breaths drew down his spine. He had never seen her this frightened before, and it made Arthur feel sick to think that he was the one she was afraid of.

“I had to tell you,” Morgana said at last. She tilted her chin up in the same way she always had when challenging Uther in front of the Court. Her voice was strong and level but Arthur saw the way her hands were shaking.

“Yes,” was all Arthur managed to say. He nodded, frowning, not sure if he would ever find the right words for this. “I’m glad you did.”

The few seconds of quiet before Morgana spoke again felt like an eternity. “I won’t leave,” she said. She folded her arms and the long, silver fabric hanging from her wrists rippled with the movement. “This is my home and you can’t make me leave. I won’t.”

The image of it flashed through Arthur’s mind; an announcement at Court, Morgana’s rooms stripped bare, Gwen crying, Morgana’s horse galloping through the city gates. Arthur’s stomach jerked and filled with a desperate, cold dread at the thought of ruling alone - of taking over his father’s throne without Morgana by his side.

“No,” he said at once. The wrench of abandonment finally snapped Arthur’s limbs into movement. He took a few short steps towards Morgana and reached for her, bundling her up in his arms. “Of course not. I wouldn’t think it, Morgana. Not for a second.”

Arthur felt warm and safe with Morgana’s head against his chest and her hands at the small of his back - just how he had felt as a boy when he dreamt of being wrapped in his mother’s arms. He wanted to press his face into Morgana’s hair and squeeze her tight against him. His muscles bunched ready to enclose her, protect her, and his heart expanded a little with the sheer depth of his love for her; of his need to keep her with him, always.

Arthur was still grappling with the reality of it; his sister was a witch, a sorceress. She was everything Uther had loathed and feared; everything that had ever threatened Camelot, threatened the throne, threatened the _people._ Men and women had been executed for practicing magic every year for as long as Arthur could remember. He wondered how many Morgana had watched knowing that she would face the same fate if the king discovered who she really was. He wondered how long she had known, how long she had been swallowing her fear and holding her tongue at Uther’s side as he passed judgement on others.

“We’ll make it right,” Arthur promised, pulling back and kissing Morgana’s forehead. “I don’t know how, but we’ll fix it.”

Morgana nodded, her eyes fixed on his. “You needed to know before tomorrow,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You needed to know before you made your oath because you need to change things, Arthur. You’re not your father.”

At that, something tensed in Arthur, and sickly guilt washed over him. He loosened his hold on Morgana and stepped back. “Don’t,” he muttered, trying to make it forceful but failing against the strain in his voice. “I’ll keep you safe, I’ll change things, but he can’t be spoken of in that way, not ever. He was my father.”

His father’s body was barely two nights cold, the crown had not yet been passed over; to be harsh - to be critical - was still akin to treason. Morgana looked wounded and angry.

The heavy curtains swayed, the hem of each flapping far out from the wall in a chill breeze which was foreign and strange in the hot midsummer night. Arthur turned to stare at the open window, puzzled, but as he opened his mouth to ask if Morgana could feel it too, he heard the deep, angry creak of wood. He looked back at her as the candles dimmed almost to nothing, and felt his chambers shrink around him; the walls pressing in until the oak cabinets sounded as though they were stretched to the very edge of splintering.

It was Morgana’s doing - the low golden shine had returned to her eyes and her expression was stormy as she stared at him, her chin lifting in defiance once again. Arthur could feel her power, he could feel the untamed stretch of her magic as it twisted through the stone work and encircled his chambers. Morgana was dangerous; her power was unchecked, untrained and wild, but somehow Arthur knew she wasn’t a danger to him. The bending, shrieking pressure Morgana was sending out did not touch him. His movements weren’t restricted and his muscles weren’t squeezing around his bones; he was unharmed.

“Don’t be angry,” he said, careful to keep his voice level and not commanding. Arthur had been on the receiving end of Morgana’s indignant, furious glares frequently enough to recognise one when he saw it, whether it was doused in gold or not. They never lasted long.

“Arthur, you know what he would’ve done,” Morgana replied, and Arthur was momentarily taken aback to find that the magic hadn’t altered her voice at all. “How can you expect me to speak of him with anything but a matching hatred? I only hid this for so long because I didn’t want to set you against him, because I knew he would never listen, not even to his own son! All I want now is-”

“Equality,” Arthur finished for her, taking her hand again. “I know.”

He was not a stranger to his sister’s beliefs; Arthur had seen Morgana fight Uther tooth and nail to have her maidservant, Gwen, seated at the high table for her sixteenth birthday feast. He had seen her always searching for fairness, respect, and freedom for the lower townsfolk who came to petition the king. He had seen her chase the chance for the ladies of the Court to engage in politics, so often excluded by the men. That Morgana would want other sorcerers - others like her - to live without fear, was as plain as could be.

Morgana nodded and whispered, “Yes,” the magic dropped away from the walls around them and faded to highlights in the bright green of her eyes. “And respect.”

Arthur curled his finger beneath her chin and pressed his thumb into her cool, soft skin.

“And you will have it,” he said, trying to keep his tone as sincere as the burning honesty in his chest. “You’ll have it, I promise, but we can do it without damning my father’s name. I need that. I need to show him respect, too.”

When Morgana gave him a weak smile and dipped her head in agreement, Arthur felt like crying out with relief. He pulled her into his arms once again and squeezed as hard as he could, determined to protect her and love her for as long as his crown held strong. With his sister’s help, he could bring peace and prosperity to Camelot - he just knew it.

 

**

7 Years Later

**

Breakfast could be quite a challenging time at Court - activities involving nobody but Arthur and Morgana often were. Dusty sunlight streaked into one of Camelot’s grandest council chambers through high stained glass windows, and Arthur and Morgana sat facing each other from opposite ends of a long, wooden table with plates of fruit, bread, cheese and pastries spread out between them.

Arthur sliced into an apple, turning the knife over and over in his fingers and nodding along to Morgana’s idle reports on the development of her youngest sorcerers’ fire spells. She may have been Camelot's High Priestess, flourishing in her role as the unofficial half of their regency, but Morgana was still Arthur’s sister and therefore, by definition, required ignoring every now and then. Usually Lancelot and Guinevere joined them for breakfast and helped stave off stale discussions about daily training regimes, but they were nowhere to be seen this morning.

“Or so Mordred told me,” Morgana said, and Mordred’s name dragged Arthur’s attention back to the conversation with alarming speed. “I’ll be pulling him out of your training session this afternoon, by the way. There are a few exercises which only he can properly demonstrate with me and we can’t leave the children without seeing them any longer.”

Arthur blinked. “Wait, wait - what?” he said, perhaps exaggerating the disbelieving arch of his eyebrows just for effect. “No way. Sorry, Morgana, no. You borrowed him for a week last month and he had to skip two feasts to catch up on his mace work with Leon. If you want him, you’ll have to find another way.”

“ _Arthur,_ ” Morgana’s glare hardened in warning but Arthur took no notice.

“No,” he told her, shaking his head and going back to his apple to show that the discussion was over. “You already take three of his mornings for spellwork while the other knights are free to relax or attend private matters, you’ll have to move the children’s session to one of those.”

The angry sound of Morgana’s knife scraping across her plate as she cut through some bread was unmistakable but Arthur refused to look up.

“That time is set aside for their study of the traditions of the Old Religion,” she grated out through clenched teeth. “There’s no other time they can learn that! Geoffrey is already strict enough with our access to the library after Fredrick tried to hit Cathy with that soaking spell-”

“Well you’ll just have to decide which is most important,” Arthur cut in. There had been a time when he would have listened to Morgana’s arguments and tried to work around them, but she had grown strong and capable over the years and now she only ever caused a fuss to try and coax him into letting her spend more time with the protégé they were supposed to be _sharing._ Splitting Mordred’s time between the sorcerers’ tent and the training field had proven much harder than they had imagined when he had first come to them at fifteen and asked why he had to choose between two paths which felt like they could be just one for him.

The slice of apple Arthur was lifting to his lips was suddenly wrapped in a long strand of silver light, which faded away and left the fruit yellowed and curling in on itself - rotten. Arthur rolled his eyes and dropped it back onto his plate, preparing to scorn Morgana for behaving like such a child, just as the doors to the council chamber burst open and Lancelot, Guinevere and Leon flooded in.

All three of them were stumbling a little from the confusion of trying to walk too close together - Lancelot had his arm wrapped tightly around Gwen, who was hunched over to cover her face with her hands, and Leon was jostling along behind them, his boots almost catching on the hem of Gwen’s dress with every step.

“Gwen?” Morgana said at once, her voice urgent. She scraped her heavy chair back across the stone floor and made her way around the table.

Lancelot glanced up at Arthur, his brow furrowed half in concern and half in apology, and then he turned back to his wife, who had her face buried in his shoulder and was waving a hand blindly in Morgana’s direction, trying to bat her away.

“It’s fine, really, I’m fine,” Gwen was saying, clearly trying to hide the quiver in her voice. “I knew it was coming! I knew. I’m fine, let’s just- I’ll just- I’m sorry we’re late.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Morgana snapped, grabbing hold of Gwen’s arm and tugging her away from Lancelot. There was a brief moment when Lancelot looked affronted, as if he wanted nothing more than to pull Gwen right back again, but then Morgana shot him a sharp look and he retreated to his seat on the other side of the table, giving Arthur’s shoulder one solitary pat as he passed.

Arthur watched them all bustle about from his seat, a forgotten slice of apple poised before his lips. He widened his eyes at Lancelot, who in turn gave him a weak smile and a shrug before reaching over and piling bread and cheese onto two plates. Arthur was quite taken aback - he had known Gwen for years and she was always so contained, so reserved.

While the three of them were growing up, there had been moments when Morgana had whispered something to Gwen in the middle of a feast and made her burst into a fit of giggles. A few times, Arthur had caught glimpses of Gwen smiling shyly as Lancelot tucked a dark curl behind her ear at the edge of the training ground. Once, at the very beginning of his reign, Arthur had even seen Gwen’s eyes flash with fear as Morgana performed spells in front of the Court, but he had certainly never seen her hysterical. Even as she divested herself of servanthood and rose to respectability in Camelot’s Court, Gwen had always seemed unperturbed, taking to any change as if she had been born to it; an oasis of calm between Morgana’s swirling rage and Lancelot’s endless fervour.

Morgana took Gwen’s hand and led her to a chair opposite Lancelot. Then she flicked her wrist and her own chair scuttled over, stopping beside Gwen’s so that Morgana could perch next to her and wipe away her tears with the red sleeve of her dress. Lancelot cleared his throat uncertainly but everyone ignored him. Leon shifted his weight back and forth nervously, peering at Gwen from several feet away with concern wracking his face.

“Now, what is it?” Morgana asked, her tone soft and gentle as she stroked her fingers through Gwen’s hair.

There were a few long minutes of silence while Gwen looked down at the table, gathering herself, and Morgana stared just as intently into her face, her brow furrowed. Lancelot lifted one of the plates he had filled and held it across the table for Gwen, who took it with a weak smile and started slicing the cheese into smaller chunks.

“He’d been ill for weeks and Gaius had done everything he could,” she said, her eyes fixed on the cheese. “I knew it was coming, I’m just being silly. I mean, he was- he-” Gwen’s voice caught in her throat and Arthur saw her swallow several times, trying to force down tears. “He was old,” she continued after a moment. “He was happy. He had Elyan back, he saw my wedding day.”

Arthur frowned, unsure of exactly what he was hearing. Lancelot caught his gaze and supplied helpfully, “Gwen’s father - this morning, he- er, left us.”

“Well where did he go?” Arthur said at once. They could send out riders to fetch him back if his condition was that severe, perhaps send a small party to accompany him. Gaius had a few assistants who would be happy to gain some experience working alone.

Lancelot’s expression turned pained and he glanced over at Gwen and Morgana, both of whom were giving Arthur a black look. He was only trying to get to the bottom of this so he could help - perhaps he hadn’t shown much interest in Guinevere’s life in the past but he was the king and protecting Camelot’s subjects was one of his biggest responsibilities. If Gwen’s father was endangering himself by trying to travel while unwell then it was Arthur’s duty to do what he could to protect-

“He _died,_ ” Lancelot hissed. “In his sleep.”

“Oh,” Arthur said blankly. He lowered his apple to the plate and wondered how exactly one apologised for such a contemptible blunder. “Guinevere, I... I’m-”

The look Morgana shot him and the short, sharp way she shook her head made Arthur quickly trail off into silence. Lancelot was glancing back and forth between his wife and his king, clearly unsure of where he should direct his own apologies, and Leon was still hovering uneasily behind Gwen and Morgana, his brow furrowed and his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back. Arthur caught his eye and tried to offer him a seat but Leon just shook his head.

“Where’s Elyan?” Morgana asked softly, her hand clasping Gwen’s on the table. As soon as her attention was turned fully away from Arthur, he looked down at his plate and barely said a word for the rest of breakfast.

****

The strained, uncomfortable atmosphere at breakfast stuck in Arthur’s mind all day; he barely kept up with the weekly council meeting and got nowhere with the patrol reports he tried to read before training.

Death was a phenomenon Arthur had grown accustomed to during his life, from the absence of his mother at Court to the daily execution of Camelot’s enemies, and from the loss of wide-eyed, frightened soldiers in border disputes to the slow, inevitable grind of sickness which had eventually stolen Arthur’s father from him. Silenced screams and lifeless bodies did not faze him. Arthur had spoken quiet eulogies and attended elaborate funerals more times than he could remember, but the fate of the soul was something he tried never to ponder.

As the servants had been clearing away the empty plates and goblets that morning, Arthur had heard Lancelot murmuring to Guinevere about Avalon. He had told her that the Sidhe would welcome her father with open arms.

“Avalon is the kingdom of the kind-hearted,” Lancelot had said, his voice steady and certain. “And your father was nothing but goodness.”

Arthur didn’t believe him. The myths of the Sidhe varied greatly from teller to teller, but theirs was always a home reserved for great kings and queens. Many of Arthur’s earliest memories of Court involved tales of Avalon told by bards and poets at feasts. It had been accepted as law that Queen Ygraine was awaiting her husband in the Afterkingdom. Arthur had listened, enraptured, to the low, gentle rhythm of songs describing the peaceful world of warmth and light that was his mother’s new home.

Guinevere’s father might have been as a good a man as Camelot could offer, but he was no king; he had no title. He was not in Avalon. Arthur could think this - Arthur could know this - because his father was not in Avalon either. The unattainability of the Sidhe may have granted them clemency from Uther’s hatred of magic, but that would not have been enough. When Arthur had reached fourteen and his father had suffered his first terrible bout of illness, all songs of Avalon had been banned at Court; a man filled with such loathing and wrath would never pass into the unblemished kingdom of eternal life. The pain of knowing that his parents were parted as distantly and hopelessly in death as they had been in life was a hurt Arthur could never truly vanquish, but he had come to accept it. There was no certainty in death.

His thoughts circled this concept in unending streams as he bustled about the castle, attempting to look important and engaged in all of his duties. The fate of his father’s soul was something Arthur had actively avoided discussing - not only with Morgana but also with himself. Preserving Uther’s dignity by honouring him regularly at Court was a tradition Arthur had introduced from the moment he took to the throne. He had learnt to ignore Morgana’s snide comments about tyranny and her sorcerers’ downcast eyes during speeches which paid tribute to Uther’s great leadership and love of Camelot. Arthur may have repealed his father’s laws, he may have disagreed with his father’s decisions, but he could not condemn a man who he had loved so unconditionally - the only person who had ever loved him in the same way.

As Arthur headed down towards the lower levels of the castle that afternoon, freshly buckled into his armour and ready for training, he felt the hushed murmur of an old voice calling his name, doubtful and desperate. It was as though Arthur’s doubts and pain over the question of Avalon weakened him; made him vulnerable to the drag of regrets which he had buried within himself when he took the crown and promised Morgana all the safety she could ever hope for. Unlearning a fear which had roots twenty-one years deep in his soul had not been an easy task - doing so overnight had been close to impossible - but Arthur had managed it, not just for his sister but also for his people and his kingdom. After that, there was nothing he wouldn’t give them. If finding security in death was tangible - was at all possible to grasp - then he would find a way. He had to.

Practice that afternoon was almost empty, with Elyan and Lancelot absent and Leon glancing up at the castle every few minutes, his concern completely eclipsing any hint of attentiveness. Gwaine had taken over testing the new recruits, and so was on the opposite end of the training ground growling insults and challenges at frightened young nobles, fresh from the sweet wines and soft bedding of their fathers’ estates. Percival tried to draw Leon into conversation several times, but once Guinevere and Elyan’s news was shared, he was as hopelessly distracted as if it were his own. Mordred seemed to be the only knight paying any attention. After an hour of repeating every instruction three times, Arthur sent everyone except Mordred away.

“What do the Druids say about Avalon?” Arthur asked once he had sent Mordred crashing to the ground with little more than five well-aimed strokes of his sword.

Mordred looked at him quizzically, still catching his breath, and panted, “It is the resting place of great kings, sire, protected by the Sidhe, immortal creatures of the After-realm.”

Arthur nodded. “And has it ever been known for ordinary folk to pass into their keeping?”

“There are many different legends, sire,” Mordred replied, getting to his feet. “But I have never heard of that.”

“These legends,” Arthur said after a moment of a quiet. “Do they speak of any kind of gateway? Any place where the living may communicate with the Sidhe?”

“The Druids speak of a lake,” Mordred said, slow and hesitant. “And, more recently, there has been talk of a Sidhe ambassador - one who can pass unhindered into the world of the living.”

“Interesting,” Arthur murmured, fully aware of how completely he was confusing Mordred but reluctant to say any more. With a curt nod, Arthur shook himself and raised his sword ready to spar again. Mordred beat him three times in a row.

****

It was with considerable tension in his shoulders that Arthur made his way to Morgana’s chambers that evening. He was surprised to find her alone, having expected to see Gwen perched on the chest at the end of her bed or sitting at the table, sharing some wine with her former mistress. Clearly Lancelot had been forthright about whisking Gwen home for the evening just before Morgana could claim her attentions. Not even Celia, Morgana’s handmaiden, was present to keep her company.

“Arthur,” Morgana said when he slipped through the door, sparing him little more than a glance up from the papers scattered across her desk.

“Good evening, Morgana,” Arthur replied. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course not, although you shouldn’t stay long. There might be gossip,” her eyes twinkled as she spoke and Arthur found himself smirking back at her.

“Very well, I’ll keep it brief,” he said. “I need to discuss something with you.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow, her interest caught. “Something that can’t wait until our many, _many_ official audiences tomorrow?” she asked. “What is it, dear brother? It’s either illegal,” her eyes darted up and down Arthur’s body and she made a small, speculative sound. “Or private.”

“It’s neither,” Arthur said, trying to ignore her mischievous expression. “It’s about this morning - something Lancelot said.”

Morgana’s interest faded visibly. “Sometimes, Arthur,” she sighed, going back to her papers. “People use figurative phrases to lessen the impact of a death. _Left us_ is just one example of this, other’s include-”

“Not that,” Arthur interrupted, irritated. “Afterwards. He told Guinevere that her father had gone to Avalon.”

This made Morgana set down her quill and look up at him, her brow furrowed.

“I know it was a lie,” Arthur continued hurriedly, a little put-off by the intensity of Morgana’s calculating gaze. “Avalon is promised only to great kings-”

“-And queens.”

“Yes, and queens,” Arthur agreed, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes. “And Guinevere’s father was a blacksmith, so in truth he had no place there. Even if he was as good a man as one could imagine, better- better than Ulfric the Kind or Henry the- oh, I don’t know, the Lovely, even then he wouldn’t have passed into Avalon. He would’ve just disappeared.”

“I sincerely hope you didn’t say any of this to Gwen,” Morgana said, looking at him for all the world as if she actually believed he was that stupid.

“No,” Arthur protested, a little affronted. “Of course I didn’t. What I’m trying to say is that I think the current system is flawed. We have sworn - I have sworn - to make life for the people of Camelot as rich and prosperous as possible. It’s my duty to protect them and ensure their happiness and security. If I can somehow extend that to promising peace of mind for the friends and family of those who die, then I have to try.”

Morgana frowned. “Are you saying you want to knight dead people?”

“I’m saying I want to make reaching Avalon a possibility for ordinary people as well as royalty,” Arthur told her, exasperated. “Mordred told me there’s a Sidhe ambassador, someone who can travel between the kingdoms, and I want to invite this- this person to Camelot so that we can convince him to grant our people clemency and make room in the Afterkingdom for ordinary folk who have lived good lives. Rewarding only the great deeds of monarchs is hardly fair - surely _our_ reward for kindness is not being assassinated.”

Several seconds of Morgana just looking at Arthur passed, the silence heavy and expectant between them. He reached up and wiped away the sweat gathering at his hairline, letting his mind race over the words he had just spoken and feeling his conviction strengthen behind each one. This was the next improvement; the quickening beat of his heart and the wild surge of certainty in his stomach was just the same as when they had repealed the ban against knighting commoners, or when they had adjusted the property laws to ensure that wives who lost their husbands would not lose their homes as well. The grin that blossomed across Morgana’s face was just the same as all of those times, too.

“I never did like the idea of spending eternity with nobody but crusty old kings anyway,” she admitted. Then, picking up her quill again, “Is Mordred certain about this Sidhe envoy?”

Arthur nodded. “The Druids tell legends about a lake where mortals can communicate with the Sidhe. This envoy is one of their newest stories, but he wouldn’t have told me if he didn’t believe it.”

“How much did you tell him?” Morgana asked, “Of what you hope to achieve?”

“Nothing.”

“Very well then,” Morgana went back to her papers. “We’ll inform the Court first thing tomorrow and then call Mordred for an audience - if he’s the only one who knows these stories, he’ll have to take our message for us. I’m sure he’ll be eager to help.”

Arthur recognised this as a dismissal, so he wished Morgana goodnight and headed back to his own chambers with the thump and rush of adrenaline loud in his ears.

****

Mordred looked wide-eyed and nervous when he was called before the council early the next afternoon, but the line of his mouth was determined and his gaze did not stray from Arthur and Morgana as they explained his task. Some of the older councillors had been sceptical but, during the seven years of his rule, Arthur had weeded out the men who acted most discernibly like his father’s advisors rather than his own, and with Agravaine’s support his proposals easily achieved a majority.

The plan was simple: Mordred was to take one of the royal stallions, ride out to Ascetir forest and visit the large Druid settlement there, then gather what information he needed to deliver a message to the Sidhe lake. He was not to take a scroll or a declaration, but rather commit to memory verses honouring the great goodness of the people of Camelot and conclude them with an invitation from Arthur.

“The people of this kingdom are as much kings and queens as any of my forebears,” Mordred repeated Arthur’s words slowly and carefully, his hands clasped behind his back. “We invite you to meet at our Court two weeks hence to discuss the terms of their passage into your realm.”

Arthur nodded, satisfied. Morgana beamed, her shoulders lifting and her eyes warm with pride. Mordred smiled, shy but clearly exhilarated, and inclined his head towards the council before spinning on his heel and pacing back out through the door. And so, it was done - there was nothing to do but wait. There were two more items of business, then the council was adjourned and Arthur was free to lean back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face and letting the tension ebb out of his shoulders along with the last bustle of councillors shuffling off into the corridor.

The buzz of silence, the knowledge that - for now - the issue of Avalon was out of his hands, felt strange to Arthur, whose mind had been cast into violent swirls of hopelessness, distraction, contemplation and finally assertion in little more than the span of one day. He was certain the Sidhe would accept - there was no alternative route down which he could approach his goal, so they _had_ to accept - and once their envoy arrived, the diplomatic steps were as clear and easy as breathing.

Camelot had played host to countless dignitaries in the past; the Court knew how to behave, how to appropriately welcome a visitor, and Arthur and Morgana knew how to ensure they left with Camelot in high esteem. There would be feasts, picnics and sunlit horse ride. Perhaps Morgana would take the ambassador to oversee her sorcerers’ display sessions, which was when laymen were granted permission to sit and watch the wonders of a training session - just to emphasise the true equality and acceptance championed by Camelot’s citizens on a daily basis.

Arthur was confident, completely confident, and if in the quiet he heard another whisper of doubt, a muted hiss of contempt or guilt - well, he was much better equipped to ignore it than he had been the previous morning.

A soft touch on Arthur’s forearm startled him. His eyes burst open and he hitched forward in his chair, trying to pull himself back into a position more befitting a king. Guinevere was standing beside him, biting her lip and looking truly sorry for being present at the breaking of Arthur’s self-conscious, indefatigable facade.

“Guinevere,” Arthur said, a little ruffled. He had been surprised to see her sitting in her usual place when the council commenced, but she had been silent throughout the proceedings, watching him and Morgana closely with an almost guarded expression, and her presence had quickly slipped to the back of his mind.

“Your Highness,” she said with a quick curtsy. She was smiling at him - warm, if still just a little apologetic. “I wanted to thank you for this effort you’re making with the Sidhe. After yesterday, I can’t help but feel that your decision has been influenced by my loss and-” Gwen paused here, looking lost for words. “And it means a great deal, sire. Thank you.”

“Anything for my people,” Arthur said, reassured by the familiar blossom of courage that came from meaning every word. “I’m just sorry it took a loss like yours to bring the issue to my attention.”

“My father would have been proud to die for such a change,” Gwen told him, squeezing his forearm gently and giving him a brief peck on the cheek before taking her leave. Arthur watched her go without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

Mordred returned after a few days, grubby but exhilarated, as he always was after visiting the Druids. He reported as much of the Sidhe’s message as he could remember - they agreed to send an ambassador for discussions. He would stay in Camelot for just two days and, in that time, a decision would be made. Mordred said that Camelot was to receive the prince of Avalon and his servant on the second day of April; a man the Druids referred to as Emrys.

When pressed, Mordred admitted that he had not seen the creatures that received Arthur’s message. He said that he had been taken to the edge of a small lake by a Druid, and there he had heard the voices of the Sidhe in the whistle of the wind through the branches above his head. After that, Arthur had dismissed him, disappointed but no less determined, and ordered a few servants to begin preparing chambers for the prince and his companion; there was a great deal to organise before their arrival.

It wasn’t until the evening of the second of April arrived that Arthur felt the first true signs of nervous anticipation. He was standing in the courtyard with the knights, watching the afternoon light wane into dusk and waiting for the prince to enter Camelot. He had no idea what to expect; the Sidhe were such a secretive people that not one single song or tale of their kingdom ever matched another. One of the most popular ballads at Court during Arthur’s youth had described the Sidhe as silent and illusive, guiding worthy souls to Avalon under the cover of darkness with nothing but the pale silver of the moon and the glimmer of their own magic to light the way. Another rhyme had spun pictures of glorious, golden spirits who always travelled in merry bands, surrounded by music, laughter and sunlight.

Mordred shifted slightly on the steps to Arthur’s left, his chain mail clinking softly, and Arthur wondered suddenly if the unknown prince riding towards Camelot would arrive resplendent in shining armour - if he would be large and ferocious like the warlords Camelot had hosted in the past, or if he would be slight and dainty, a fairy with fair hair and eyes that glittered with otherworldly magic. There was no way of knowing, nothing that could prepare Arthur for finally coming face to face with a true inhabitant of Avalon, and when the faint clip-clop of hooves floated into the courtyard it was all Arthur could do to stop himself from gripping the hilt of his sword. He did not do well with peculiar visitors, especially of the magical kind, and as a knight he was trained to secure a weapon when threatened.

There were streaks of pink and gold in the sky, hinting that summer was waiting just on the horizon. They cast muted pastels across the two figures who came trotting through the gate. The first was riding a large, pale horse and following him there was a shorter rider on a stout gelding. Guards stood to attention all around the courtyard and a short blast of trumpets echoed through the evening as the flag of Camelot rose above the keep, fluttering out in the light breeze and catching the last hints of fading sunlight.

Arthur tried to paste on a smile as he watched the riders approach but he faltered when he caught sight of the long, silver horn protruding from the first rider’s pale horse. Could it be? There had not been tell of unicorns in Camelot for decades; there wasn’t a single person at Court who had ever seen one, although the people still made weavings in their image and sang songs of their beauty and grace. He watched, mesmerised, as the unicorn slowed to a stop twenty feet in front of him. The sound of its steps was more akin to the trickle of a stream than the tapping of metal horseshoes.

The gelding came to a halt just behind the unicorn. Its rider, a short, muddy-haired boy, tumbled off and hurried over to help his master dismount. Arthur looked up at the prince as he laughed and pushed his servant’s hand away. The sound was soft and human, with no hint of the musical lilt Arthur’s favourite poems described. Emrys’ shoulders were not quite as broad as Arthur’s and his skin was pale. Most of his face and figure was shrouded by a deep blue cloak, which shimmered and billowed as he swung his leg over the unicorn and dropped lightly to the ground. Arthur drew a short breath when he realised that Emrys had been riding without a saddle.

The servant reached out and brushed a crease out of Emrys’ heavy cloak, then dodged away to begin unloading small bundles from the gelding. He glanced back with a ruddy grin when Emrys called out to him but their voices were too quiet for Arthur to catch the words.

“Welcome to Camelot,” Arthur said loudly, stepping forwards and giving a short bow. “I, King Arthur, extend my warmest greetings to you, visitors from the kingdom of Avalon.”

Emrys turned away from his servant and stepped into a bow of his own. When he straightened up again, Arthur was struck by the pink flush of his cheeks, strikingly warm against what little else of his smooth, pale skin was visible beneath the hood. The dying dusk light cast soft shadows beneath Emrys’ cheekbones and made his blue eyes glint gold for a moment as he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was... noticeably _normal_ with no unearthly echo or quiver.

“The squires will see to your steeds,” Arthur said, motioning towards the half dozen boys clustered on the right of the courtyard.

“Not mine,” Emrys said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t need to be tended.”

He turned back to the unicorn and stroked its nose. Its pure white coat was giving off a very faint glow which lit Emrys’ face as it nuzzled against his shoulder. Arthur watched him lean in and mutter against the unicorn’s silver mane, then pull back with a smile.

Two of the squires were already leading the gelding away towards the stables and Emrys’ servant watched them from his master’s side. He was laden with several bags and stooping slightly, clearly tired from the journey. Arthur was about to turn to Mordred and ask him to help when Emrys’ voice rang out, loud and clear, across the quiet courtyard.

“I said leave her,” he commanded. Three squire boys had encircled the unicorn and were trying to ease close enough to take hold of its mane. When Arthur glanced at Emrys, he had his arm outstretched towards them and his tone was sharp and firm. “She won’t do to be stabled like the gelding.”

The squires glanced uncertainly back and forth between Emrys and Arthur, then dipped their heads and backed away. Ripples ran through Emrys’ blue cloak as he lowered his arm, making the movement seem fluid and elegant but not quite magical. The unicorn slowly turned and trotted back across the courtyard.

“Follow her. Ensure she makes it out of the castle unhindered,” Arthur called to the remaining squire boys, who nodded and hurried off.

Satisfied, Emrys came back to stand directly in front of Arthur. He bowed again and pulled back his hood, revealing a mess of dark brown hair with an uneven fringe which had curled a little from the sweat of riding all day in the sun. There was hair curling above his ears too and this lack of sheen, this lack of complete perfection in Emrys’ appearance, jarred Arthur slightly. He wondered at the status of this Sidhe prince - was he truly one of Avalon’s powerful, immortal folk? He was teetering dangerously on the edge of Arthur’s expectations, both confirming and subverting them with his magical steed, his unkempt appearance, and his rather soft, enchanting smile.

“My apologies,” Arthur said, biting back all his questions. “You have my word that you will not have to repeat yourself again, Prince Emrys.”

Emrys’ smile twisted into a smirk but he nodded. “My apologies also,” he replied. “I won’t presume to command your subjects in future, my lord, but it’s very important that only I touch the unicorn.”

“I understand,” Arthur graciously returned Emrys’ nod. He motioned for Mordred to step forward and gave him orders to lead Emrys’ servant to the two bedchambers prepared for them. Mordred rushed over to take some of the bags from the serving boy, then dodged between the other knights to lead him up into the castle. As the boy passed, Arthur noticed he was grinning and when he turned back to Prince Emrys, it was to find a similar amused expression gazing up at him.

Arthur sighed. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s so funny?” He didn’t want to breach decorum but this Sidhe prince was practically laughing in his face - surely that was ground enough for bluntness.

“It is nice to know that you have a Druid in the castle,” Emrys said and, when Arthur frowned, “The Druids are the only people who call me Emrys. My name is Merlin - Prince Merlin, I suppose, for the sake of argument, but Merlin will do.”

“Very well,” Arthur hid his slight twinge of embarrassment with a curt nod and when Merlin smiled again, he managed to grin back. Then the two of them led the knights back up the steps and into the castle.

Walking from the courtyard to the hall did not take longer than ten minutes but it took all of Arthur’s not inconsiderable willpower to stop himself from casting curious glances at the prince every few seconds. Merlin’s cloak was billowing out behind him and the folds of fabric which had been covering his chest had slipped apart to reveal a tunic woven in gleaming white, the richness of the thread clear in the soft dips where it folded across Merlin’s stomach. His breeches were dark and closely fitted. Arthur had never considered how the fashions of Avalon would compare to those of his own kingdom but, based on Merlin’s attire, it seemed that they were almost indistinguishable.

Morgana rose from her seat beside the throne when the guards opened the doors for the welcoming party. Sorcerers were lining the walls of the Great Hall, all dressed in shimmering black cloaks, and the sight would have been impressive if it were not for how truly mismatched Morgana’s sorcerers were. They varied greatly in size, some with long, spindly limbs who towered over Arthur and others whose stocky frames barely reached Morgana’s shoulder. They could not contend with the symmetry of his knights, all of whom were roughly the same height, age and build.

The only consistency among the sorcerers was the way that they were all staring so intently in Merlin’s direction. The youngest were assembled near the throne, the smallest not a day over eleven, and all were watching the party approach with wide-eyed awe. A number of elderly women were gathered beside the doors and began tittering excitedly as Merlin passed them. Morgana had honed her sorcerers’ raw skills well but Arthur often found himself wishing that she would implement a little more discipline; her occasional, open challenges to his authority had instilled a similar blasé attitude in those she commanded.

“May I introduce the Lady Morgana,” he announced, gesturing a little over-enthusiastically. “High Priestess of Camelot and my beloved sister. Morgana, this is Prince _Merlin_ of Avalon.”

“Of course,” Morgana smiled at Merlin and her grin was far more genuine than Arthur’s. Her eyes flashed as she paced across the hall to meet them and a trail of silver magic uncurled ahead of her and wrapped itself around Merlin. Arthur felt its familiar tickle as it passed him - Morgana’s was the only magic that didn’t give him goosebumps.

There was an audible gasp from the sorcerers around the hall when a similar strand of silver entwined with Morgana’s and hovered in a circlet above her head. Merlin’s eyes were glowing gold, and Arthur watched his lips move soundlessly as new colours began to flow along the thin paths his magic was etching into the air. There were sparks of blue and green at first, each appearing in a multitude of shades and curling in hoops around the silver circlet above Morgana’s head. Morgana’s smile widened, she laughed, and suddenly Merlin’s magic erupted into a pure, brilliant gold which shone bright enough to light the high ceiling of the hall.

The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood up at the rush of power beside him. He wanted to step away, to move out from Merlin’s side and give his heart a chance to stop clenching in shock and uncertainty. Arthur had witnessed many magical greetings in his time as king but he had never been so close before - he was usually safe and distant in his throne. 

This brush of Merlin’s magic at his side - possibly the most powerful magic to ever grace Albion, if the tales of the Sidhe were to be believed - made a sharp, almost painful nausea twist just below Arthur’s ribs. He ignored it, pushed it down and back to the deepest recess of his stomach, and clenched his fists until he could paint on a convincing smile. It was just the uncertain rush of knowing that this was it - their chance - which made his skin feel like it didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t the magic. Definitely not.

“Incredible,” Morgana breathed, her eyes raking over Merlin’s face as the two of them drew to a halt just a few feet apart. She clicked her fingers and the last vestiges of her silver magic tapered off into the growing shadows around the hall.

Merlin’s eyes swirled with a golden light one last time and then the magic above their heads had shrunk to tiny pinpricks of gold. It swept outwards and buzzed around the walls of the hall until every single candlestick was glowing with a small, happy flame.

“My lady,” Merlin said, his tone almost tipping into playfulness, and he bowed so low that the sleeves of his cloak swept across the floor.

For a brief moment, while Merlin’s head was bowed, Arthur caught Morgana’s eye and they exchanged a look; Morgana gave him a wide smirk but Arthur just frowned, totally perplexed by this enigmatic visitor.

As soon as Merlin straightened up again, Morgana reached for Arthur’s hand and drew him to her side, facing the assembly. She wrapped her fingers around Arthur’s knuckles and squeezed, making him want to grin and pull away at once. He wasn’t a child who needed to feel safe and included at every passing moment - quite the opposite, actually - the whole evening had just been rather unsettling.

“You are most welcome in Camelot,” Morgana told Merlin, beaming. Arthur puffed up his chest and nodded in agreement.

The heavy wooden doors at the end of the hall creaked open and Mordred slipped inside, followed closely by Merlin’s servant, whose hair was still a grubby mess. Arthur acknowledged them with a wave of his hand and Merlin turned, beckoning his servant forward.

“Thank you,” Merlin said to Morgana as the servant drew level with him. “This is my manservant, William.”

“Just Will should do fine,” the boy corrected, leaning forward and offering Arthur his hand. Arthur took it reflexively, too stunned by the confidence in his presumption to do much else. Will tagged on a reluctant ‘your Highness’ as an afterthought, but only once Merlin had given him a meaningful jab to the ribs.

“Right,” Arthur said after what felt like a very long silence. “Well, we have arranged a feast in your honour. We will be eating in the banqueting hall in a few hours so you can retire to your rooms for now and rest after your journey. Then tonight you will, er, _both_ be seated at the high table with us.”

"Brilliant," Will grinned. Arthur tried not to stare at him - he really tried - as he called Mordred forward and told him to take Merlin and Will back to their quarters.

"Yes, sire," Mordred said with a bow but Arthur could clearly see him smirking at his boots. That and the momentary glance which passed between Mordred and Morgana was enough to tell Arthur that he was the only one who found Will's informality alarming and not amusing.

"This is Sir Mordred, one of Camelot's youngest and most promising knights," Arthur started to say, addressing Merlin who, he quickly noted, had the wisdom to look suitably mortified by his servant's actions.

"He's also one of our most powerful sorcerers," added Morgana. "I've been training him to use magic alongside swordplay."

It took Arthur a moment to realise that rolling his eyes in front of Prince Merlin would probably come across quite poorly - it seemed bad manners caught on even quicker than colds - but luckily he managed to pass it off as a thoughtful survey of the hall. When he looked back at Merlin to find that he was being watched with raised eyebrows, Arthur had to fight back an embarrassed blush.

Thankfully, Merlin's attention was drawn away almost immediately by Mordred, who gave him a small bow. His movements were stilted and awkward under Morgana's insistent, never-ending string of: "He's very good, really just fantastic. You'll have to come and see him practice."

After nodding uncertainly at Morgana, Merlin bowed to Mordred, and then they were leaving the hall through a cluster of enraptured knights, with a grinning Will in tow.

"First impression?" Arthur asked Morgana once the congregation of sorcerers and knights had started trailing out of the Great Hall as well. They had all heard Mordred refer to Merlin as ‘Emrys’ before making it halfway to the door, and Merlin had turned to him with a warm smile and said something in a strange language which Arthur could only assume was the Druid tongue.

"He’s quite brilliant," Morgana said, and Arthur definitely did _not_ huff but she raised her eyebrows at him anyway. "Don't you agree?"

"Well," Arthur said, his mind racing through all the impolite, irritating things Merlin had done upon arriving and not lingering for a second on how very human he seemed. "He’s definitely showing you a lot more respect than he’s showing me."

Morgana rolled her eyes, which Arthur thought was very unfair because, well, _she_ hadn't seen Merlin ordering Camelot's squires around in the courtyard - or laughing at Arthur!

"Perhaps he was nervous," she sighed, smiling and waving at a few of her youngest protégés, who were straggling behind the main group. "You are very intimidating."

"And you're not?" Arthur hissed, barely managing to rein in his voice to a volume which wouldn't draw attention. He motioned towards Morgana's mass of black-cloaked sorcerers, who were babbling loudly as they funnelled out of the two large doors at the end of the Great Hall.

Morgana gave him a pitying look that Arthur found far more infuriating than anything Prince Merlin or his servant could possibly have done, and said, "Arthur, we're his people, his kin - cut from the same cloth, if you will. I assure you, Prince Merlin feels far more at home in the company of my sorcerers than you or any of your knights. Ignorant, lumbering men with heavy weapons and thick armour are far more frightening to magical folk than their own kind. Surely even you can understand that."

There were a few moments when Arthur just stared at Morgana, opening and closing his mouth without saying a word because he was too baffled and angry to summon his voice. At last, he managed, "That's not fair! The knights aren't all ignorant, lumbering men,” and when Morgana pursed her lips he added desperately, “We have Gwaine!"

"If you thought Gwaine was any less formidable than Percival then you wouldn't have made her a knight, Arthur, and don't you dare argue with that. Anyway, the woman is at the tavern four nights a week and spends the rest making _rum pies,_ " the dark weight Morgana placed on these two words screamed her disapproval to high heaven. "And sharing them with the stable boys she claims do the best naughty nobles skits - if anything she's worse than the rest of them!"

“She’s a character, I’ll give you that,” Arthur conceded flatly. If Morgana had criticised Camelot’s most rambunctious knight once, then she’d criticised her a thousand times, and the whole thing grew dull very quickly. “If you like, I’ll ask her to tone it down at the feast tonight.”

Morgana rolled her eyes and set off across the empty hall towards the door. “ _Please,_ ” she called over her shoulder. “I can already see her making a move on Merlin and that is the last thing we need tonight.”

****

Even after just half an hour of speeches, the warmth of the banqueting hall was overwhelming. Admittedly, that March had been colder than most, but Arthur felt that nine fires - two along each wall and one roaring in the centre of the room - was overdoing it a little. He had expressed the need to present Camelot as a warm, welcoming and peaceful kingdom to all senior servants and members of the Court in a short gathering before Merlin’s arrival, but as he tried surreptitiously to dab at the sweat on his forehead with the sleeve of his formal tunic (and saw Guinevere doing the same thing several seats away) he began to consider the possibility that his instructions had been taken a bit too literally by the rather enthusiastic chamberlain who had taken charge of organising decorations for the greeting feast.

As king, Arthur’s speech had been the first of the evening, and while he had aimed to keep it short, proud and relevant (in that order), the three noblemen who followed him clearly didn’t share the same intentions. The first had been Lord Brewis, whose father’s untimely death had left him to inherit an estate far too large for someone so young, and who clumsily wove flamboyant sword gestures and lewd jokes about past visitors into what might possibly have been the least structured speech Arthur had ever had the misfortune to listen to.

The second was Lord Mulberry, whose every third word was punctuated by a not-so-subtle pinch to the arm from Lady Mulberry, who would then clear her throat with a sharp cough and flutter her eyelashes. Arthur suspected that the four minutes Mulberry dedicated to arguing that each noble household should be appointed a royal sorcerer to help their tailor with dying and mending was not a subject upon which the lord and lady placed equal merit - a suspicion which Morgana’s muttered criticism of Lady Mulberry’s uneven purple dress confirmed.

The final person to speak was Lord Fergus, a man so old and so smug that Arthur was fairly certain he had won a bet against one of Uther’s grandfathers and believed the shame of such a loss must have been passed down the Pendragon lineage just the same as a strong jawline and a threatening-yet-elegant composure. Fergus spent the majority of his speech blurting out increasingly ridiculous adjectives to describe Morgana’s beauty, having clearly forgotten her name and feeling that ‘her ladyship the delicate spring flower who has guided this Court across the bitter hills of change’ was an apt substitution, before congratulating her and Arthur on their success in creating a kingdom the likes of which he could never have imagined under the previous Pendragons, and taking his seat to a round of applause which he began himself.

By the time all the speeches were over, Morgana was tensing with enough contained rage to make her fork rattle against the tablecloth. Arthur cast her a sideways glance and drew breath to announce the beginning of festivities, but was interrupted by Merlin, sitting directly to his left, who cleared his throat and leaned into Arthur’s space to whisper, “May I?”

Arthur blinked at him, overcome for a split second by the heady smell of lavender, and then he nodded, his gaze fixed on the way Merlin’s blue eyes were crinkling above his broad grin.

The mutter of voices around the hall fell silent as soon as Merlin rose to his feet, and a sea of curious faces turned towards him as he surveyed his audience with a smile.

There was a great deal of light in the hall, with all nine fires burning heartily and a cascade of thick, white candles dangling in clusters from the beams high above each table. The light created soft, soothing lines of shadow in the folds of Merlin’s blue overcoat, which was sleeveless and lined with finely detailed golden embroidery. Underneath he wore a clean white shirt made of soft wool, which clung to his arms and wrists - far more practical than the gaping sleeves of his travelling cloak. Merlin’s boots and breeches seemed to be the same as those he had arrived in earlier that evening, although the dirt from his journey on horseback had been cleaned away. Whether that had been done by magic or William, Arthur was unsure, but judging by the manner in which Merlin’s servant was lounging back in his seat to Merlin’s left, maintaining a muttered conversation with Mordred while angling his face towards his master, Arthur suspected it was probably the former.

“Thank you, people of Camelot, for such a warm welcome,” Merlin said. His voice was loud enough to carry through the hall but Arthur thought he heard a slight tremor nonetheless. “I have come a long way to be here tonight and I would like to commend you on your warmth and hospitality, and to express my gratitude for the diversity of the speeches you have given in my honour.”

At that, Arthur had to look down at the table to hide his smirk, thinking he might have finally found the perfect example of diplomacy.

“I’m sure many of you have questions about my kingdom, Avalon,” Merlin was saying. His hands were clenched into fists against his thighs and Arthur felt like he was invading Merlin’s privacy just by noticing. “But I ask you to remember that I am here to learn about your Court, not to teach you of mine. I believe you to be good, honest people, and I ask that you extend your patience to me, so that I may be free to protect the traditions of my home. I’m sure that, in time, many of you will be destined for Avalon yourselves, and I hope that you are able to wait until that time to learn its secrets.”

With that, Merlin gave a quick nod and sat down. He was still smiling, but his lips were pressed tightly together and his exhale was shaky. The entire hall remained silent and it took several long seconds of staring at Merlin before Arthur realised that it was his turn to speak. He got to his feet, expressed the Court’s thanks for Merlin’s honesty, and announced the beginning of the feast. Sorcerers at either end of each table clicked their fingers and the deep red tablecloths rippled to reveal large plates of freshly seasoned game, bowls piled high with vegetables, and jugs filled to the brim with wine and ale.

“I could have made that request on your behalf,” Arthur said to Merlin in a low voice, sitting back in his chair and allowing Morgana first pick of the food laid out before them.

Merlin glanced at him, his attention dropping away from where he had been using his fork to wrestle one of the largest dumplings from Will. “I thought it best to make it myself,” he said. “If it had come from you, my lord, then it’s quite possible that I would only have been safe from questioning in your presence.”

Arthur glanced across the hall, at the men and women whom he loved, but whom he knew for a fact could circulate stories and rumours faster than Morgana could extinguish candles, and he was forced to agree. “Well, I’m sorry you had to make it at all,” he conceded, but Merlin only shook his head and went back to his food.

As the feast progressed, the conversation proved to be easier than Arthur had found with most noble envoys. Although Morgana did lean over a few times to gripe about her least favourite noblemen, the majority of Arthur’s attention was taken up by Merlin, who was curious about the number of sorcerers currently training in Camelot and how they compared to the number of knights under Arthur’s leadership. Arthur explained that Morgana’s sorcerers were far greater in number because she took on anyone with magical ability, whereas Arthur selected his knights based on a series of extensive, gruelling training regimes, and then was surprised to find that Merlin was eager to learn more about these regimes and what happened to the men who failed.

They were served by Arthur’s manservant, George, who had grudgingly taken to waiting on both of them when it became apparent that Will did not intend to lift a finger to assist his master - he preferred snorting loudly at whatever stories Mordred was telling him. George had just emptied the first jug of wine into Merlin’s goblet when Arthur came to pointing out his five most trusted knights; seated to the right of the High Table in red Camelot cloaks and formal grey tunics.

“That would be Elyan, Gwaine, Percival and Leon,” he told Merlin, pointing to each knight in turn. “With Lancelot on the end there, closest to us. He always sits there so he can be close to Guinevere.”

“They’re engaged?” Merlin asked, leaning forwards to peer down the table. Arthur shook his head.

“Married,” he said. “For a few years now. They do a lot around the castle - when Lancelot isn’t training with me, he’s teaching some of the Court orphans to sword fight. Guinevere helps care for them when she’s not with Morgana, you see.”

It had been one of the first suggestions Gwen had made upon attending meetings with the Court as a lady rather than a maid. She had told the council about one of Camelot’s senior maids, whose husband, a local merchant, had died on a journey to the Mercian markets. When the maid had fallen ill a few years later and passed away, there was no one with the means to support the eight-year-old daughter she left behind. The girl had been unable to find work, not even in the scullery, and she had fallen into destitution. Camelot’s orphanage was a selection of rooms in the far west of the castle, which had been set aside so that the children of nobles and peasants alike could find love and safety. Much of the sewing and cleaning work that had gone into preparing the rooms had been championed by Gwen herself, and she seemed to know each child by name, despite the frequency with which their numbers fluctuated.

Merlin looked back and forth between Arthur and the far end of the table, “So that’s Guinevere next to Lancelot, is it?” he said.

Arthur was surprised by Merlin’s eagerness to learn the names of people with whom he would be spending only a few days. He nodded anyway, in response to Merlin’s question, and said, “Yes, that’s Guinevere. Although I’d suggest sticking to _Gwen,_ if you can. Between her and Morgana is Lord Agravaine,” at the sound of his own name, Agravaine broke away from his conversation with Morgana and acknowledged Arthur with an awkward nod. “He’s my uncle but he devotes himself more to being Morgana’s advisor than mine,” Arthur explained, quieter this time, as Agravaine turned back to Morgana and muttered something which made her burst into laughter.

Not long after that, Morgana rose to announce the end of the feast, and what remained of the heavy meats and roasted vegetables made way for fruit tarts and even more wine and ale. The large fire burning in the centre of the cluster of tables was extinguished and its ashes cleared to make way for dancing. A large band of minstrels started up in the corner of the hall and Arthur took Morgana’s hand, grinning at her as he bowed, and led her around the table to begin the first dance.

They moved together with ease, having danced at every celebration in Camelot for as long as either of them could remember, and soon they were joined by Lancelot and Gwen - who swirled past them in an elegant spin - and Gwaine and Mordred. Gwaine was leading and Mordred was flushed bright red. He kept staring down at his feet, looking embarrassed but determined not to stumble and draw even more attention. When Gwaine ruffled Mordred’s hair and nodded towards the High Table, Arthur took a moment to wonder who she was suggesting Mordred dance with instead, before he was distracted by Morgana wriggling out of his grip. She bounded over to Agravaine, who was hovering a little uneasily beside the knights, and grabbed his hand.

Arthur watched the rest of the evening from the comfort of his seat, occasionally picking at the pastries that were left on the plates around him. After a while, Gwen broke off her dance with Lancelot to take Leon’s hand, and Arthur barely suppressed a snort when he stepped on the hem of her long blue dress three times within their first minute together. Mordred seemed a little more confident when he was allowed to lead; he grinned into Morgana’s shoulder as they spun together, letting some of the childish warmth he felt for her spill out for all to see. Once Arthur had walked in on the tail end of one of Mordred’s tantrums and found Morgana holding him close as he cried over failing to grasp the same spell thirteen times in a row. He had still been a boy at the time, barely a year into his life in Camelot, but ever since that moment Mordred’s embarrassment over displaying his affection for Morgana had been clear.

It was only a considerable time later, after even the servants had lost count of the number of times their jugs of wine had been refilled, that Arthur spotted Merlin and Will dancing together in the thick of the crowd. They were both pink-cheeked and laughing, hardly touching but for their hands, and Arthur watched them, intrigued, as Will leant in to whisper something against Merlin’s ear and then let go of him and headed through the sea of swirling dresses and cloaks to tap Mordred on the shoulder.

Arthur’s attention soon fell away from Will and Mordred when Merlin turned and began heading back towards the High Table. They exchanged an uncertain nod in greeting when Merlin caught Arthur’s eye, and Arthur took the few moments before Merlin drew level with him to let his gaze linger on the sheen of sweat on Merlin’s neck and collarbones, just visible above the layered v of his shirt and overcoat.

The heat of exertion had made the damp ends of Merlin’s hair curl against his nape and over his ears again. It took Arthur only a brief glance to notice this and he wondered faintly if Albion was warmer than Avalon. Then Merlin plopped down in his seat next to Arthur and said, with unabashed wonder, “Are all of your feasts like this?”

“Only the important ones,” Arthur replied. He was a little dizzy from wine but it seemed that Merlin was letting his formality slip, so Arthur could probably be forgiven for doing the same. “There’s not usually so much wine for the smaller feasts.”

Merlin nodded enthusiastically and reached for his own goblet, which he had abandoned some time earlier to pace across the hall and politely interrupt what looked like an uncomfortable conversation between Gwen and a slurring Lord Brewis. Merlin had taken Gwen’s hand and led her back into the dance, murmuring in her ear until her blush had disappeared into a relaxed chuckle. Now, Gwen was swaying along with Morgana, their cheeks pressed together and their hands linked in a loose, familiar tangle of fingers. Arthur watched them, only looking away when they shifted to reveal Gwaine and Percival arguing in hushed voices across the hall. They both kept casting determined glances towards the Lady Elena, who was picking absentmindedly at a cranberry tart and had no dance partner in sight. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“I admit,” Merlin said. “It’s not quite what I expected of your court.”

Arthur turned to look at Merlin with one eyebrow raised but Merlin wasn’t facing him. Arthur followed his line of sight and saw Will and Mordred taking turns to spin each other around under their arms. With one particularly energetic shove, Will managed to spin Mordred so fast that their hands slipped apart and Mordred went crashing into one of the smaller feasting tables, knocking three goblets over and ruining what looked like an untouched apple pie. Thankfully, there were no ladies with pale dresses within range of the mess, so Mordred just rubbed his hip where it had collided with the hard oak table top and scowled at Will for a moment before his eyes crinkled in amusement. Arthur didn’t think he had ever seen Mordred smile quite so openly.

“We try not to be overly formal here,” Arthur told Merlin, ignoring his smirk. “We have strict laws and the Court is governed by certain, self-imposed boundaries but there’s still a lot of life here. I’m sure it’s just the same in your kingdom.”

The moment Arthur said it, he felt cold embarrassment wash over him. It was the wine and the fact that, so far, Merlin had been nothing like the haughty, queer prince he had been expecting. Merlin’s manners had been misplaced and his servant a disaster but there was an undercurrent of strength to him. He had danced clumsily, not glided around the hall like the graceful, immortal sprite he was supposed to be. He had laughed loudly, he had helped himself to wine until his cheeks pinked, and he had been nervous about addressing the Court. Arthur had more than enough excuses for his mistake - for forgetting that Merlin was special, not just an ordinary envoy - but he still felt a twinge of guilt which was only amplified by the way Merlin’s smile turned soft, understanding, and _amused._

“I’m sure it is,” he mused, directing his gaze at the dancers around the hall and giving Arthur time to berate himself in private. “I suppose I mean the openness of this evening - the ease with which you all can express your true feelings without ceremony.”

“Not all of us,” Arthur said instinctively, then scolded himself further for such a telling slip; Merlin just seemed to bring it out in him.

Merlin made no response besides a quirk of his eyebrows, his eyes still fixed on the dancers. Arthur looked up to see Lancelot and Leon, who had evidently given up on trying to pry Gwen away from Morgana and were dancing together, apparently suffering the aftermath of one of their drinking matches with Gwaine and Elyan. Their hands were clasped tightly and they were swaying, their grins broad with laughter as they collided with the couples around them and shouted loud, indistinct apologies.

“Although,” Arthur huffed, exchanging a look with Merlin. “I guess you could say some of us know how to enjoy ourselves.”

Merlin snorted, which struck Arthur as another distinctly un-fairylike trait, and then shook his head when Arthur lifted the jug to pour him more wine.

“No, thank you. If I drink any more then I’m afraid I might start trying to turn cheese back into milk or make some kind of wax dragon,” he indicated the hundreds of candles still burning merrily above their heads, the wax of each collecting in suspended pools beneath the clusters.

“Really?” Arthur asked, amused, relaxed - perhaps slurring a little. “You’d do that?”

“It’s been known to happen,” Merlin admitted with a resigned sigh.

They fell into silence for a while. Arthur drained his goblet and watched lazily as Merlin held out his hand and made a bowl of berries amble along the table towards them, navigating the mess of abandoned plates and empty goblets with an easy waddle. When it came to a stop between them, Merlin chose a blackberry. It marked his fingers and lips with spots of deep red juice.

“You’re not frightened of me at all,” Arthur said as the light faded from Merlin’s eyes and he reached for another berry. It had not taken long for Arthur to realise that Morgana’s earlier assertion had been wrong, but it was only the fuzzy confidence of wine, warm fires, and privacy amongst a busy crowd that pushed him to mention it.

Merlin frowned. “No,” he said slowly. “Should I be?” And if Arthur didn’t know better, he would have said that his tone was teasing.

“Well, I just thought-” he started, then stopped and tried again. “You’re just- you’re all, y’know, magic, and I’m more-”

“Brawn?” Merlin supplied helpfully. The corner of his mouth twitched up when Arthur glared.

“More of a physical threat.”

“I think _threat_ is a bit much,” Merlin said, tilting his head and giving Arthur an assessing look. “I’m a visiting envoy - a visiting envoy who I know for a fact you’re trying to impress. I’m safe here.”

“You haven’t seen me train,” was Arthur’s reply.

“Well, maybe I should.”

“Maybe you should.”

Merlin grinned, “Alright then,” he said, his eyes flashing again as he called an unattended wine jug over and grasped its handle. “More?”

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur said, “What happened to waxwork dragons?”

Merlin filled both of their goblets and set the jug down with a flourish. “I’ve decided you can handle it.”

Two jugs of wine and a few hours later, as the music was dying down into quiet harmonies and Morgana was bidding goodnight to Lancelot and Guinevere, Arthur offered to escort Merlin back to his guest chambers. Will had long since disappeared with Mordred - Merlin claimed he had seen them leaning heavily against each other and stumbling through the large wooden doors during the ten minutes (although really it hadn’t been more than _five,_ thank you very much) that Arthur had spent with his forehead in a plate of half-eaten pie.

There was a churning sensation in Arthur’s stomach similar to how it might feel if one was impaled on a mace and swung in wide circles around a knight’s head, but he felt he hid his sickness well as he part-elegantly-rose, part-clumsily-rolled out of his seat and yanked Merlin’s chair back for him while Merlin was still perched dazedly on it.

The soft night’s breeze trickled in around the edges of shutters and through slim arrow slits lining the walls of the upper levels, ruffling their hair as they ambled through the castle. Arthur tried to ask about Will, tried to pry out the reason why a prince would keep such a useless servant, but his attempts were clumsy at best and Merlin just said, “He carries out the duties I require of him,” and left it at that. Arthur didn’t dwell on it for long.

By the time they reached Merlin’s chambers, Arthur had tried to describe the famous historical events in four different tapestries and been corrected by a giggling Merlin on every single one. Arthur made a grand gesture towards the door and Merlin glanced at it, then leaned languidly against the wall beside it and surveyed Arthur thoughtfully for a long moment.

“I hope one day there’ll be a tapestry of Morgana and I somewhere in this castle,” Arthur said to fill the silence. “We’ve made a great deal of changes here.”

Merlin gave him a wide, warm smile and reached out, running his hand lazily up the centre of Arthur’s chest to brush briefly over the laces of his shirt.

“Plenty of time for talk like that tomorrow,” he said, his words tapering off into a quiet hum. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur waited until Merlin’s hand dropped away from him again before he drew in a short breath and muttered, “Goodnight, Merlin.”

“That’s _Prince_ Merlin to you,” Merlin drawled as he fumbled the key to his chambers from the pocket of his breeches and pushed the door open.

“I’m a king,” Arthur said, affronted. “That beats prince.”

Merlin tutted and shook his head. “A mortal king,” he chimed. “I’m prince of the _immortals,_ Arthur. I definitely win.”

And with that he shut his door, and Arthur was left to wander back to his own chambers in a silence which was strangely contented.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur woke late the next morning with a dry throat and a headache three times as demobilising as he had been expecting. George had laid out an extravagant breakfast complete with several goblets of water and a small potion from Gaius. The mere sight of the meat was enough to turn Arthur’s stomach, so he avoided it completely in favour of a few timid mouthfuls of fruit and half a sweetened scone.

Thankfully, that morning had been set aside for Morgana to take Merlin for a stroll around the castle grounds. She was planning on speaking at length about magic’s role in Camelot, before inviting Merlin to observe a medicinal training session with some of her eldest witches. This meant that Arthur was free to curl up (majestically, of course) on his window seat with the latch undone and breathe in the fresh spring air. Once he felt human again, he sent for George to dress him and headed down for early afternoon practice.

The knights’ state was not much better than Arthur’s. Elyan, Leon and Lancelot gathered their weapons in relative silence while Percival and some of the younger recruits laughed and jeered loudly at Gwaine’s retelling of the night before. It seemed that she had trumped them all in gaining the Lady Elena’s favour and was enjoying gloating over her success.

“Women want what women want, lads!” she cried to a chorus of contradictions and insults. “The ladies of the Court talk, you know, and once a lady compares her night with _me_ to her friend’s night with one of _you_ \- well, I’m afraid you’ll all be requesting duty in the border villages a little more often.”

Arthur was fairly certain the straining tendon in his neck was getting close to denting his gorget as Gwaine’s teasing invoked another ruckus of laughter from the knights, the volume of which brought the slowly-fading pain of Arthur’s headache back to full throb in one almighty flare.

“Can you keep it down a little,” Arthur said once he could hear himself think. The group dispersed quickly, rushing around to complete preparations for training, but Gwaine just turned towards him and swept her hair out of her face.

“Sorry, sire,” she said far too cheerfully as she tied her hair back into a loose bun. “I didn’t realise your jolly countenance was reserved only for the visiting prince.”

A few of the knights glanced up at Arthur, but most of them seemed to be trying to hide their grins. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asked, annoyed. His head was still pounding.

“Your spirits were high last night, sire,” Percival explained a little hesitantly. “We haven’t seen you so relaxed at Court since Princess Mithian came to discuss the southern border.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, those discussions were extremely taxing,” Arthur snapped after a quick survey of the surrounding knights left him with the distinct impression that they expected some kind of salacious extract for their interest. “Now get out onto the training field and make a start on some basic sparring stances.”

Elyan quirked his eyebrows at Arthur as he passed but Arthur resolutely ignored him. Perhaps Mithian had been the only lady at Court who hadn’t fallen for Gwaine’s easy, far-flung charm; perhaps instead she had caught Arthur’s eye and spent afternoons hunting alone with him. Perhaps she had been brilliant, something unlike any princess he had ever known, and _perhaps_ he had been aggrieved to see her return to rule her father’s realm, but he had not for one moment considered asking her to stay. The knights romanticised things too much - Arthur already had a partner with whom he shared Camelot: Morgana. Squeezing another person onto the throne would only result in one of them falling off, and Arthur didn’t fancy his chances.

And regardless, Merlin was nothing like Mithian. There was little hint of nobility in his countenance, besides his initial graceful greeting and the command that had echoed through his voice in the courtyard; things Arthur was beginning to suspect he had only seen because he expected them, rather than because they were actually there.

Arthur was just pulling his sword from the rack when Mordred burst through the door to the armoury, looking flushed.

“Sire,” he said, a little breathless.

Arthur nodded at him. “Mordred,” he said, eyeing him carefully. Mordred’s hair was poking up on one side and a quick glance confirmed that his vambrace was twisted on the wrong way, as if he had fumbled it in a rush. “Did you show the prince’s servant back to his quarters last night?”

“Oh- um- yes, sire,” Mordred replied, oddly flustered. “And to breakfast this morning. That’s why I’m...” His cheeks pinked a little more.

“Good, I wondered where you’d got to,” Arthur glanced up and down Mordred’s dishevelled state one last time, perplexed, then turned and led him out onto the training field.

The potion Gaius had left with Arthur’s breakfast was a luxury not afforded to the knights - or so Arthur was forced to conclude as he found himself catching them all unawares with routine moves. The fresh air went a long way to curing the remnants of Arthur’s headache, and April sunshine was not enough to leave him uncomfortably warm. All in all, practice was fairly successful. Gwaine’s usually swift, strong swings were slow and clumsy and Arthur easily knocked her sword from her hand, teaching her a long overdue lesson against inordinate amounts of wine and women - or so he professed. Loudly.

The only knight who seemed to stand a fighting chance against Arthur was Lancelot. The stiffness of his joints and soreness in his head were clear from his lazy, sloppy defence, but the twelve minutes he managed to hold Arthur back were evidence enough that Gwen had woken him early with apples and a cold wash.

As Elyan was finally lifting his hands in surrender to the sound of the other knights’ gleeful catcalls, Arthur caught sight of a maid approaching them from across the field. Her dress was soft cream with layers of pale yellow skirts and her apron was tied with a messy knot at her waist. She smiled at him, her expression nervous, and eyed the group of roaring knights uncertainly as she drew closer - it was Celia, Morgana’s handmaiden. Arthur hushed the knights with a wave of his hand and a sharp look, then beckoned Celia forward. She trod lightly, careful to avoid the abandoned weapons scattered at odd intervals in the grass, and tucked a lock of curly brown hair behind her ear as Arthur motioned for her to speak.

“My lady sent me to ask if you’ve finished training, m’lord,” she said. She was young - little more than seventeen - and her eyes flicked back and forth between Arthur’s face and his boots, as though she was unsure of where exactly she should look while addressing him. “Prince Merlin is eager to visit the orphanage and he hoped that you would join them.”

Arthur looked back across the way Celia had come. He could just make out the figures of Morgana and Merlin standing amongst a small group of sorcerers at the edge of the training field. Morgana’s deep purple dress was a stark contrast to Merlin’s muted green tunic, and Arthur raised his free hand in greeting. Merlin seemed to shift up onto the balls of his feet as he waved back, his playful countenance unmistakable even at such a great distance.

“Thank you,” Arthur said to Celia. “I’ll be along as soon as I’m able.”

Celia curtseyed, then spun on her heel and started back towards her mistress. She smiled sweetly at Mordred as she passed him, still sprawled on the ground after twisting his ankle. He wiggled his fingers at her in greeting and she let her hand drag briefly across his shoulder. There had been a time when Arthur had supposed them sweethearts, after seeing the kindness with which Mordred helped her fetch Morgana’s meals during her first few weeks of service, but then he had taken a stroll across the courtyard the night after a feast and found Celia with a short, blond stable boy sucking a bruise into her neck. Mordred had shown no sign of heartbreak since then, and Celia was scarcely spotted without her stable boy, so Arthur was fairly confident he didn’t have another Lancelot and Guinevere on his hands.

By the time Arthur had made it back to his chambers, had George strip him out of his armour, and taken a quick bath, Merlin and Morgana would have been in the orphanage for a whole hour. He hurried to join them, fastening a cloak over his thin shirt as he swept out of his chambers, leaving George to clean up after him.

There were still several hours of daylight left before the onset of dusk, but the sun was starting to slant through the windows on the west of the castle as Arthur pushed open the door to the orphanage and peeked inside. The floor was dotted with thickly woven, well-worn rugs, and abandoned wooden toys in the shape of horses and knights, blunted swords, decorated hairbrushes and writing slates.

Guinevere was sitting a few feet in front of the door with a small, red-haired boy curled up in her lap. She looked up at Arthur with a smile and touched her finger to her lips, indicating something across the room. Arthur slipped inside and shut the door with a quiet click. When he turned around it was to find most of the children cuddled up on embroidered cushions in a wide semicircle around the room, all staring at Merlin. He was silhouetted against the large windows overlooking the western stretch of Camelot, but his sharp features were still well lit, somehow softened by his bright expression as he recounted a story.

“Then there was an _awful_ creaking sound and splinters started popping out in a big, pale line around the tree trunk!” Merlin was saying, his hands flapping in accordance with the children's gasps. “‘This doesn’t look good, Mer,’ said Will, and he was right. The tree started to tilt, its long, heavy branches dragging it down towards the floor - towards Old Man Simmons, who was out collecting firewood to cook his evening stew!”

Arthur watched, a little baffled, as Merlin’s face crumpled into a grumpy frown and he started shouting in a raspy whisper, shaking his fist above his head in a striking impersonation of a humourless old man. The children bounced up and down on their cushions, clapping their hands together and squawking with delight as Merlin turned his guise on them and started telling them off for helping to fell the tree with magic.

A quick survey of the room revealed Morgana, who was perched on a stool to Merlin’s right. She caught Arthur’s eye and smirked, raising one eyebrow, and Arthur knew at once what she was trying to say - Merlin had been like this all day; bright and enthusiastic, still showing nothing of the detached, ethereal mystique they had anticipated. Arthur widened his eyes at her but Morgana wouldn’t communicate further, instead turning her attention to smoothing the creases out of her skirts and whispering something to Celia, who was kneeling at her side.

“So, you see, little princes get up to mischief just the same as you do,” Merlin was saying when Arthur focused on him again. “And my mother was just as angry about my muddy knees and scraped hands as Myrtle would be about yours.”

These last few words were said in a stage whisper as Merlin tilted his head towards a large woman with whiskers protruding from her chin, who was asleep in the corner, her arms folded and her greying hair slipping from its tight bun. The children snickered behind their hands and one of the oldest boys let out an excited shout.

It was just then that Merlin’s gaze met Arthur’s. He smiled and dipped his head in greeting. “I’m sure even his Highness misbehaved from time to time,” he said to the children.

They all turned, following Merlin’s stare, and a ripple of gasps ran around the room. They hadn’t heard him come in - wrapped up in the story as they were - and Arthur supposed that he might make quite an imposing figure to such small children, looming over them in deep reds.

Arthur gave an awkward wave to the room at large, then cleared his throat and said, “I suppose there might have been a few occasions where I hid the guards’ helmets or turned horses’ saddles the wrong way around. With my lady’s help, of course.”

“Of course,” Morgana agreed, winking at one of the little girls at Merlin’s feet. “But don’t you dare try that now, children,” she teased. “Because we know all the tricks.”

As the children started chattering amongst themselves, Gwen removed the young boy from her lap and left to look for Lancelot. She said he might give an impromptu training session with the wooden swords scattered around the room - a favourite game in the orphanage.

Morgana was still perched on her stool, speaking quietly with the young girl she had winked at a few minutes earlier. The girl couldn’t have been more that eight years old. She was rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet and speaking animatedly to Morgana. As Arthur watched them, Morgana nodded and the girl stepped backwards, extended her hand, and made a crude pink star buzz in a spiral between the two of them. It faded quickly, but Morgana beamed at the girl and reached out to stroke her cheek.

Arthur’s palms went a little cold and he felt his stomach twist. He eyed the girl’s rumpled dress, her scuffed leather boots, the soft, chubby skin of her little arms, and had to rub a hand across his jaw at the thought of how much power could be hidden in such a slight, innocent frame. When Arthur finally dragged his gaze away, he saw Merlin watching him intently, and felt heat prickle at the back of his neck.

****

That evening, Merlin disappeared to his rooms for a few hours and Arthur took the opportunity for a private discussion with Morgana.

“How was it?” he asked when he managed to corner her at the top of one of the great staircases. “Did he say anything? Has he given any indication-”

“He said quite a lot,” Morgana said with a sigh. She swerved around Arthur and continued down the corridor, forcing him into a trot to catch up again. “In fact, he’s hardly stopped nattering on all day. He wanted to know about my abilities over breakfast - how I discovered them, how I learnt to hone them with such little guidance, whether I can sense magic in others or if I’m totally blind to it.”

Arthur blinked. “Well that’s not very relevant,” he said, perplexed.

“Oh, that’s not everything!” Morgana announced cheerily, rounding the corner in flurry of fine silk fabric and sending two laundry maids into a frightened tizzy. “When we got to the medicinal session he barely left my witches alone for a moment, asking them question after question about their lives before you became king - where they slept, what they ate, how they travelled without getting caught. I swear, one of them was moments away from inviting him back to her house for a full demonstration of how brilliant life in Camelot can be! I intervened just in time, since he didn’t seem to have much of a clue what she was getting at. Although, I admit, he does have a rather lovely smile.”

Arthur tried not to consider this too closely, and succeeded. Mostly. “So he’s been taking stock of the magical changes in Camelot,” he said slowly, nodding to himself. “What about the orphanage? I didn’t hear any discussion about its true impact while I was there, did you have Guinevere explain its importance before I arrived? It’s all well and good letting him have play time with the bloody things but he needs to be made aware of just what the significance of that whole development truly-”

“He was extremely impressed by it,” Morgana interrupted Arthur for the second time. “Apparently Gwen invited him to visit last night at the feast, so he asked me to show him there. Naturally, he had about forty questions pertaining to when exactly it had been established, the ages of the children cared for, the involvement of servants and courtiers outside of Gwen, Lancelot and Myrtle - blah blah blah.”

Arthur huffed out a breath as they came to a stop outside Morgana’s chambers. “Well, at least he’s thorough.”

“That and not afraid to pry,” Morgana added sharply. “Although, I suppose that is the whole reason he’s here.”

Arthur hummed in agreement just as Celia peeked through the door. She gently reached for Morgana’s hand to lead her inside.

“Oh, and we agreed that he should dine in your chambers tonight,” Morgana said as she stepped through the doorway. “I don’t think the Court could handle another feast and that William of his seems to be completely useless. He spent the whole night and most of the morning off somewhere with Mordred and left Merlin completely to his own devices.”

“In _my_ chambers?” Arthur repeated blankly.

“Yes, he’ll be there just before dark,” Morgana gave him a pitying look and motioned for Celia to shut the door between them. “Be nice, Arthur.”

****

Arthur spent an hour or so sending messages to his top councillors, warning them that Merlin would be present at the morning meeting and insisting, in no uncertain terms, that their continuation at Court was reliant solely on their ability not to make a mockery of Camelot in front of a very powerful envoy. In truth, Arthur trusted his whole council implicitly and knew that they understood what was at stake, but he was itchy and uncomfortable about the prospect of dining alone with Merlin and he needed to distract himself somehow.

He didn’t think he could stomach rich meats after the amount he had eaten at the feast, so instead he asked George to bring some plates of mushrooms, chicken, and a simple vegetable stew. There were also two jugs of very, _very_ mild ale waiting on the table when Arthur’s door opened later that evening and Merlin poked his head through.

“Does knocking go against custom in Avalon?” Arthur sighed. Merlin grinned and Arthur beckoned him in, motioning towards the only other empty chair at the table.

Merlin shut the door behind him, padded over to the table and flopped down on the seat opposite Arthur. “Immortal fairies don’t use doors, Arthur, it’s all about the curtains,” he said.

A moment of stiff, awkward silence passed before Arthur’s composure cracked and he was forced to cough to try and cover his laugh.

“Fair point,” he muttered, and he could tell from the glint in Merlin’s eye that his amusement had not gone unnoticed. “Feel free to dig in, the food isn’t as heavy as last night.”

“What is it?” Merlin asked, already picking up his fork and eagerly surveying the food between them.

“It’s chicken, my lord,” Arthur offered, after watching Merlin lick his lips for perhaps a moment too long.

Merlin cut off a large slice of chicken and heaped half of the mushrooms onto his plate. “You don’t have to _my lord_ me,” he said after a few mouthfuls. “I appreciate the show of respect but I’m fairly certain we passed that point last night when I told you that I knew the spell for making trousers fall down.” Arthur spluttered a little then, but Merlin ignored him. “And besides, it’s much easier for us to talk about the way you run your kingdom if we’re not constantly stumbling over formalities.”

“Surely two dignitaries discussing the process of ruling a kingdom requires a certain degree of formality,” Arthur replied, brow furrowed. “It’s the nature of my position as king.”

“Is it?” Merlin asked, his voice quiet but his eyes intense as they locked with Arthur’s. “You aren’t so formal with your knights, are you? I can’t imagine anybody could be entirely formal when dealing with Gwaine on a daily basis.”

Arthur felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. “She’s an exception to the rule,” he said, waving his hand as if trying to wave the whole notion away. “You try to keep a sliver of distance but she just barges right through it with an inappropriate comment or a gambling song.”

Merlin nodded. “But you love your subjects very much,” he said after a moment - it wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact. “I could tell by the way you watched them last night.”

“Of course I do, it’s my duty,” Arthur said at once, squaring his shoulders. He felt like he was under scrutiny but the idea didn’t mesh with Merlin’s easy, open demeanour, and Arthur didn’t know exactly what it was Merlin could hope to achieve from this kind of prying - it had nothing to do with rights to Avalon. In an attempt to shift Merlin’s focus, Arthur added clumsily, “And they’re good people. All of them.”

Merlin smiled thoughtfully and went back to his food. “I’m sure they are,” he agreed, his tone mild. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. He was desperate for Merlin to see all the kindness, honesty and joy that he had seen in his people countless times, but it was such a difficult thing to express.

“This is the most loyal, resilient kingdom in Albion,” Arthur professed, unable - and, for once, unwilling - to hold back a proud smile. “They have rejoiced at each change Morgana and I have made these past seven years, welcoming the helpless and unfortunate and respecting my decisions as king. Even when my father ruled and the city came under attack during periods of unrest, the people of Camelot banded together to protect and repair each other’s homes and to ward off our enemies. They are the best people one could hope to live among and every day that I rule them is an honour.”

Merlin tilted his head and considered Arthur, his lips forming a flat smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a political smile, Arthur realised with a jolt, not a genuine one. It made him feel uneasy.

“What about the sorcerers?” Merlin said at last, the lightness of his voice oddly jarring after the acuteness of his stare. “Do you count them among these brilliant subjects?”

The question was so startling that Arthur’s response stuck in his throat. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, blinked a few times more, and watched as the tiny furrow on Merlin’s brow deepened.

“Of course I do!” he said once he had found his voice, using all of his willpower to hide his anger. “Sorcerers are a key part of the Court. They are endlessly generous in their efforts to prolong this kingdom and they are respected for that generosity."

"But are they good people?"

"Sorcerers are no different from any other citizen of Camelot," Arthur's answers were coming faster now, pushed forward by the jagged edge of his indignation - or perhaps by the uncomfortable twist in his stomach. Under Merlin's wide-eyed, unassuming gaze, the flare of heat was returning to the back of Arthur's neck.

"What about you? Have you noticed any differences between the sorcerers and your other subjects, person to person?" Merlin asked. He was eyeing the stew with unabashed interest, either unaware of or unaffected by the minor crisis tearing through Arthur at the other end of the table.

It was only when Merlin blinked up at him, innocent and infuriating and completely impossible to pin down, that Arthur managed to force words through his gritted teeth.

"Morgana is my sister and I trust her with my life. Mordred is one of my most valued knights, there is very little I wouldn't grant him if he asked," he said; slow, careful, controlled. "My love and respect for the sorcerers in my acquaintance is no different than for those without magic."

Something in Merlin’s jaw twitched, but other than that his expression didn’t change. Belatedly, he nodded, acknowledging Arthur’s words. “I was wondering more for personal interest than anything else,” he said, tucking into his stew. “For years I grew up never knowing another sorcerer and now I spend most of my time with the Sidhe, whose magical qualities are bloody endless. I’m just curious to see how magic and non-magic can mix so happily, having only ever seen them apart.”

“They co-exist quite happily,” Arthur said bluntly. Merlin’s spoon scraped along the bottom of his bowl and Arthur frowned, the full weight of what Merlin had said catching up with him. “Wait, you grew up without magical input? Then, how’re you- what?”

Merlin smirked and his eyes twinkled in the warm firelight. “I’m not a Sidhe, Arthur,” he said, amused. “The Sidhe cannot leave Avalon,” and, when Arthur’s response was nothing but a blank stare, “I’m human.”

There was an extended period of silence as Arthur mulled this over, trying to twist his head around the fact that the Sidhe prince whose presence had enchanted the whole Court _was not a Sidhe at all_. Humans could not pass into the Afterkingdom until after death and, once it was gone, no soul could return. If what Merlin was saying was true and the Sidhe couldn’t pass between kingdoms either, then who exactly was the man chewing on a mushroom in the middle of Arthur’s chambers?

“You’re mortal?” he asked, deciding that answer would at least get him somewhere. “How old are you?”

Merlin looked even more amused. He cocked his head and said, “It’s hard to keep track in Avalon but I believe I’m about twenty-six, although I’ve started to suspect I stopped aging a few years ago. As for me being mortal? Not exactly, no. I don’t think I’m ever going to die because if I did I’d a be a useless envoy but, then again, I can and do spend extended periods in Avalon, so I can’t be alive in the way that you are.” Merlin speared another mushroom and lifted it to his lips. “It’s probably just a spell that lets me pass through. I don’t _feel_ dead.”

Arthur abruptly set down his cutlery and put his head in his hands. “Please explain exactly who you are,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against his palms. “If I’ve misrepresented you as some sort of immortal fairy prince to the entire Court then I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of it.”

“My name is Merlin,” Merlin said, so slowly and with such over-enthusiastic emphasis that Arthur was forced to lift his head just to _glare_ at him. “I’m prince of Avalon and envoy for the Sidhe. I came to Camelot at your request, or have you forgotten that?”

“I know _that_ ,” Arthur snapped. “Where are you from originally? Who are you?”

Merlin set down his fork and looked Arthur straight in the eye, suddenly serious. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Positive.”

“I’m from a village called Ealdor. My father was a dragonlord,” Merlin said, his gaze dropping to the table. “He was the last dragonlord left alive after the first wave of The Purge, actually. King Uther had broken his trust by convincing him to gather the dragons together and then killing them.” Arthur stilled. Merlin took a deep breath. “The dragonlord gift is passed down from father to son. When he learnt that my mother was pregnant, my father went to the Lake of Avalon and begged the Sidhe to protect his child so that the dragonlords would not die out under Uther’s wrath. Avalon had recently lost a councillor and his daughter, so the Sidhe agreed to protect me as long as I joined their court when I was twelve and served as an envoy to the living,” Merlin chuckled softly, but the humour didn’t reach his eyes. “I guess they were sick of people coming to the lake like my father did.”

Arthur stomach was twisting itself into knots and a cold chill had settled around his shoulders. If it wasn’t for the low hum of Merlin’s voice and the crackle of the fire, then he was sure he would have felt the tug of an age-old, angry whisper curling up through the castle and dragging at his heart. The Purge was never mentioned in Arthur’s presence - he did not know how to apologise for it.

“He must have died when I was little because I’ve inherited his powers,” Merlin continued, nudging his fork with his forefinger and moving it back and forth against the table top. “I mean, I think I have. There aren’t any dragons left for me to test it out on.”

Here, Merlin’s eyes flickered up towards Arthur for a split second and the cold chill was immediately replaced with an increasingly familiar burst of heat at Arthur’s nape. He could barely swallow past the dryness in his throat, mind wandering to the deepest depths of Camelot.

“So, if you met a dragon, you could control it?” he asked, his voice quivering a little.

“Yeah,” Merlin said. “If I met one.”

Arthur nodded. His throat felt like it might close up and there was a slight tremor running through his fingers, but he ignored his treacherous body and forced himself to chew and swallow a piece of chicken.

The rest of the meal passed with tangible unease until Merlin made a timid reference to the tales of princehood Arthur had mentioned in the orphanage. Soon enough, Arthur was telling him about the time he and Morgana had convinced a young, gullible Leon that the Pendragon crest was changing to blue. When Arthur described Leon’s confused march through the courtyard the next day in a patchy cloak that he had clearly tried to dye himself, Merlin’s broad, genuine grin re-appeared. His nose and eyes crinkled with laughter and Arthur let his gaze slip to the dip of Merlin’s throat, visible beneath the unbuttoned collar of Merlin’s patterned green tunic. It looked warm and soft; perhaps musky from the heat of the day or fresh and clean from a bath earlier that evening.

Arthur’s mind wandered a little - enticed by Merlin’s charming, easy grin - but each time he lingered too long on Merlin’s bright, blue eyes, his thoughts began to crawl back to dragons, his father, and the horrors of The Purge.

****

That night, Arthur couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, his skin burning underneath heavy blankets not yet exchanged for thin summer wools. When he finally pushed the blankets down to his waist, it was to find a chill creeping through the air which made his skin come up in goosebumps beneath his shift. The few times Arthur did manage to drift into sleep, it was shallow and restless, scattered with fire and screams and weighed down by the heavy drag of hatred, its roots digging deep and harsh into the pit of Arthur’s stomach and pulling his whole body into a tight, jagged knot of revulsion.

He was awake when the candles sputtered out. The onset of spring had seen Camelot’s nights shortening by degrees but the darkness outside showed no sign of lifting when the dim glow of candles cut out in Arthur’s chambers. Their light was replaced only by the pale gleam of the moon, seeping through a gap in the curtains.

Arthur threw off his blankets and got to his feet. He’d had enough of not sleeping; of ignoring the hisses and whispers of his name as he studied reports in his chambers or strolled through sunlit corridors. He pulled on breeches and boots, shrugged a dark cloak across his shoulders, and swept out into the castle.

Camelot was almost silent. A few drunken shouts and the faint sound of music echoed up from somewhere beyond the courtyard as Arthur passed open windows. There was the occasional murmur of off-duty watchmen making their way home as Arthur padded quickly down staircases and across the empty entrance hall. The castle was sleeping; eerily quiet and calm, doused in shadows. It didn’t take long to reach the lower levels.

Arthur’s pace slowed as large, open corridors became small, twisting tunnels. There was cold air behind him, tickling the back of his neck, but warmth in front of him - gentle and distant at first, but growing in strength with every step Arthur took. The whispers had stopped, replaced by the low, heavy sound of breathing, and Arthur had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could turn the final corner and duck through a dark archway into a vast, gloomy cave.

“Little king,” said a voice somewhere high above Arthur’s head. He squinted up, his eyes still adjusting to the low light.

There was a sigh of movement and a pair of glistening eyes opened in the darkness. Arthur blinked a few times and gradually the outline of a head and body appeared around them - coated in dull grey scales and curled up atop a rocky outcropping. The dragon’s wings were folded around it, concealing its legs and belly.

“Why will you not let me sleep?” Arthur demanded, lifting a torch from its rack on the wall and holding it out in front of him. It cast a faint glow across the dragon’s wings.

“It is guilt which keeps you wakeful, Pendragon, not I,” the dragon replied, its voice crackling with age and malice.

“It’s you,” Arthur said. He kept his gaze fixed on the creature before him. “If you do not stop it, I will find a way to make you.”

The dragon sneered. “Why not kill me, little king? Or would that show too much mercy for a man such as you?”

“It is nothing but my mercy which keeps you alive,” Arthur spat, swinging the torch to light the dragon’s snarling face. “Last of your kind, foulest of the earth, determined to destroy all that we have built in Camelot.”

“All that you have built is a lie,” the dragon hissed. Warm air washed over Arthur, its stench sinking into his skin. “You claim to grant freedom but I know your heart, little king, lonely Pendragon. You still hate them.”

“I do not hate them,” Arthur’s fingers tightened around the torch and his free hand bunched into a fist. He could feel anger rushing up from the depths of his stomach, singing through his veins and curling around his shoulders until his whole body was shaking with it. He hated no one; he was a good man.

“You hate them,” the dragon repeated. “If your sister knew I was here, she would never forgive you, and now Camelot has a visitor - a prince from Avalon - who would despise you for what you’ve done to me.”

“I have done nothing to you!” Arthur shouted. His voice rang through the empty cave and he turned away from the dragon to pace the tiny ledge beside the doorway. “I have done _nothing._ ”

“You are no better than your father.”

“My father was a good man.”

“Your father was a tyrant.”

“Silence!” It was Arthur’s turn to hiss this time. “You knew but one side of him, you saw but one part. Do not judge a man by how he deals with vermin.”

The dragon whipped its tail out from beneath its wings and swished it back and forth through the air. “Do not trust a man,” it said after a moment. “Who claims that those he does not understand would hurt him just for the pleasure of it.”

“I do not believe you could be tamed,” Arthur muttered, more to himself than to the dragon. He had heard little of dragonlords before that evening but this creature had defied Arthur just as readily as it had defied his father, and he could not see Merlin’s guileless manner breaking through the evil that clutched at the dragon’s heart. “I do not believe any sorcery is strong enough.”

“And I do not believe that your soul can be saved, little king,” said the dragon. It lowered its head, staring intently at Arthur, who stared resolutely back. “But this prince may change things for you. I will quiet my whispers - for now.”

Still angry but at least satisfied that he could get some rest, Arthur shoved the torch back into place and stormed back through the tunnels, not wasting another word on the dragon.

****

Arthur found it difficult to pay attention at breakfast the next morning. His anger from the night before had sunk into general grumpiness by the time he woke up, but he was tired from his lack of sleep. Most of the conversation between Merlin, Morgana, Gwen and Lancelot passed Arthur by - as did the taste of the bread and cheese he cut and ate to quiet his hunger.

The dragon’s words rang over and over through Arthur’s head. He knew better than to take them to heart; he may have been trained to fear and loathe magic but a king was nothing if he did not overcome his fears, and there was little Arthur would not overcome for his people. He was tired of dealing with the dragon - of hearing its whispers, withstanding its mocking remarks, ignoring its insistent reminders that he was living a lie.

Morgana would be furious if she discovered that Arthur had never told her of its existence but he couldn’t bring himself to kill it. For one thing, he didn’t know how, and besides, it would be an act far too reminiscent of The Purge to sit well in Arthur’s stomach. Releasing it was impossible, especially after he had kept it locked up for so long. Perhaps there had been a moment before his coronation when a truce could have been negotiated but all hope of that was long gone. Arthur had panicked all that time ago - twenty-one and faced with an enormous, sprawling creature which spat curses at the memory of a most beloved father and king. Now there was no answer to be found; things would continue as they were, perhaps forever.

One thing which did break through Arthur’s silent mulling was Merlin’s nervous, piercing gaze from the other end of the breakfast table. He didn’t seem to be joining in much either, and every time there was a brief lull in conversation his eyes were on Arthur, concerned and confused all at once. Merlin’s undershirt was pale blue, poking out from beneath several darker, thicker layers at the v of his neck and the curve of his wrists. Arthur glanced back a few times to see Merlin’s teeth sinking into his bottom lip, watching Arthur unabashedly. He wasn’t eating much.

“Merlin, you’ll be joining the council meeting in about an hour,” Morgana said and a change washed over Merlin’s face, pulling Arthur out of his dragon-induced-stupor. He looked suddenly distant; removed. “We’ve found room between me and Agravaine, and you can have ten minutes or so to discuss anything which particularly concerns you once we’ve gone over regular business. I’m confident that you’ll-”

Merlin raised his hand. “No,” he said. He spoke slowly, his whole demeanour radiating power and confidence - a far cry from the jittery, boyish young thing he had been just moments before. “Thank you, but I’d rather just speak with you and the king. I’ve made my decision.”

The room fell completely silent, and then Gwen said, “Two days,” her brow was furrowed; her hand clasped in Lancelot’s. “We were promised two days and yet we’ve had just one.”

Merlin looked at her and for a split second he seemed sad, tired, and sorry, but Arthur blinked and it was gone. The decision was made; they could do nothing now but listen and hope.

Messages were sent to the councillors, the table was cleared, Lancelot and Gwen were ushered away and then it was just Arthur, Morgana and Merlin sitting alone in the dusty council chamber, bright sun streaking through the windows and a cold shiver running around the room. Arthur moved to sit beside Morgana, both of them facing Merlin across the table.

“I’m sorry,” were Merlin’s first words and Arthur slumped, feeling his heart hit the floor. Morgana shifted upright beside him. Merlin entwined his fingers and rested them on the table. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear but I cannot grant your request. The gates of Avalon cannot be opened.”

“What fault have you found with us?” Morgana asked, her voice hard and cold despite its slight tremor. “In what way have we failed so awfully that you would punish our people as well?”

Merlin sighed and looked at Morgana sadly. “You have not failed,” he said. “It just cannot be done. I can’t, it- it can’t.”

“Why not?” Morgana’s voice was still sharp and demanding but it was softening at the edges. She leant forwards until the edge of the table was pressed into her stomach and gazed at Merlin in distress. His gaze had shifted; it was fixed on Arthur’s face, his eyes flicking back and forth, as if searching for something.

“It breaks tradition, what you ask,” Merlin answered and his interlocking fingers tightened. “Avalon is intended only for the greatest souls in history; it has been so for hundreds of year - _thousands_ of year - and it always will be so. You cannot redefine another’s kingdom without paying a price, you cannot expect-”

“We will pay whatever price you ask,” Arthur said, loud and defiant and perhaps just a tiny bit desperate.

Merlin had been with them for such a short time, he had seen so little of Camelot, and yet he still felt able to pass judgement on the lives of their people. He had danced at the feast, he had told stories in the orphanage, he had laughed over dinner. People fell in love with Camelot every day; they were whisked off their feet and into a whirlwind romance that left them rosy-cheeked, panting, and willing to die for her. How could Merlin not feel the goodness of each and every one of Arthur’s subjects humming through the castle walls? Or curling in the steam that rose from the kitchens every morning? Or tingling in the northern breeze that sometimes tickled up from the lower towns at dusk?

How could Merlin, who seemed to be everything kind and honest, deny them this?

“We’ll do anything,” Arthur repeated, swallowing around the words and trying to ignore the jolts of terror and loss gripping his heart.

Merlin’s brow furrowed for a moment. His lower lip quivered. He tilted his head a little, holding Arthur’s stare, and breathed, “I know.” Then he shook himself and his voice was strong again, “I’m sorry, it can’t be done. The Sidhe will not allow it, I will not- I can’t see this through.”

“But we will renegotiate whatever you wish,” Morgana said. “We will set up protections for portals like the lake. We’ll send tributes, we’ll hold festivals, we’ll share our wealth, we’ll-”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said again, and he truly looked it. His calm, steady composure was breaking as he got to his feet, looking back and forth between Arthur and Morgana. “I can’t grant what you wish.”

Merlin bowed his head and turned, making his way towards the door. Arthur didn’t think; he didn’t have time to think. The happiness and safety of his people was dropping away in front of him; disappearing with each of Merlin’s steps. Arthur’s chair clattered against the stone floor as he shoved it back and rushed around the table. He grasped Merlin’s wrist just as he reached for the door.

“Please,” Arthur said when Merlin, his blue eyes wide, looked up at him. “Please just stay a little longer. Give us more time, I’m begging you. You can’t just end it like this; you can’t just go after a day. Stay for the summer - stay until harvest, until the end of the year, anything. Please.”

The seconds of silence that passed as Merlin worried at his bottom lip, eyes darting over Arthur’s face, were akin to torture. Then, soft and quiet, so that only Arthur could hear, Merlin said, “I could stay. If- if you wanted me to, I could stay until the end of the summer. You could keep trying.”

“Please,” Arthur said again, lowering his own voice as well. Their foreheads were almost touching, Arthur’s fingers were still wrapped around Merlin’s wrist, and their words were coming out as little more than heavy breaths. “Please.”

Merlin parted his lips, inhaling shakily, and nodded. Arthur almost cried out in relief.


	4. Chapter 4

It took a few days for Morgana to warm to Merlin again; her faith in him, her cautious affection, had been shaken. Arthur thought he must have seen something she hadn’t in Merlin’s eyes - a shadow of real regret, a marker of something unsaid, some possibility unexplored. It had made him trust Merlin; trust that, in time, the gap between Arthur’s wishes and Merlin’s denial could be filled. If there was truly no hope of a settlement then Merlin would not have agreed to stay.

Guinevere started attending Morgana much more after that morning, making sure she was present at her lady’s side each time Merlin was - to act as a buffer, Arthur suspected, and to relieve some of the tension. Morgana’s upset and anger would not last forever but Gwen knew her best, and knew what approach was most likely to maintain diplomacy.

There was another feast to announce Merlin’s extended stay, at which Arthur very determinedly drank only a tiny serving of wine, and yet somehow still spent the majority of the night studying the soft curve of Merlin’s lips and the small ways his hands moved against each other when he was deep in conversation. He was mesmerising and beautiful and his fingers brushed the back of Arthur’s hand far too many times while he was cutting his venison, but Arthur didn’t mention it. He just brushed his fingers against Merlin’s arm or thigh whenever he could and smiled politely, answering Merlin’s questions in a low voice and calling him an idiot when he was too complimentary about the lords’ speeches.

During the day, Merlin attended council meetings and shadowed Arthur when he held audiences with lesser nobles, village leaders and merchants giving trade reports. He was good company, listening attentively and giving advice when asked, showing each report as much focused attention as if he had never seen a man such as the one telling it - which it was quite possible he hadn’t, Arthur supposed, as Merlin’s transfixed gaze follow the waggle of an old farmer’s beard while he rattled on about the loss of three wandering sheep. The Court at Avalon probably didn’t face cattle issues.

A week passed quickly. Mordred and Will were sent to the lake to inform the Sidhe of Merlin’s changed plans, returning grubby and grinning after little more than two days. Camelot even managed to uphold its image of regality and splendour for a short time, until one of Arthur’s audience session was interrupted by Celia’s stable boy, who burst into the room panting and declaring the knights’ immediate need for Arthur to join them in the royal stables.

It turned out that the emergency was Gwaine, who had somehow been tricked into locking herself into the rusty old stocks stored at the back of one of the unused stalls. Elyan and Percival had been watching from two hay bales, finding the whole thing hilarious, until they realised that the key for that particular set of stocks was long lost and that the release lever had snapped off some years ago.

“Not a soul in Albion would believe I was king if they saw me now,” Arthur had huffed, wobbling on one leg with his other foot resting against the wood of the stocks as he tugged at the metal cuff locked around Gwaine’s wrist with all his might.

“Not a soul would believe these idiots were knights!” Gwaine had grumbled, flicking her dark hair out of her eyes and glaring up at Percival, who was still hiding a smirk behind his hand.

When Elyan had reminded Gwaine that _she_ was the one who was stuck in a disused set of stocks, she had fallen silent. After a little while, Merlin had nudged Arthur out of the way and run his fingers, feather-light, across the back of the manacles. They popped open with a dull clang and Gwaine quickly rallied again, determined to seek revenge on her captors. The grin Merlin shot Arthur across the stall stayed with him as he struggled to keep his arms wrapped around Gwaine’s waist, holding her back from running at Elyan and Percival full-pelt.

Merlin had laughed about it later, as he and Arthur sat on rickety wooden benches beside the training field, so it seemed his auspicious view of Camelot had not been shattered too dreadfully. They had watched Gwaine lead sword practice, gleefully beating the seven bells out of the other knights in the process, and Merlin actually cheered her on once or twice. There were a few times after that when Arthur saw Merlin and Gwaine together, talking in the corridors or laughing in the courtyard, always just for a moment as Merlin made his way between an appointment with Morgana and returning to the guest quarters, or meeting Arthur outside his own chambers.

Something about it sat uncomfortably in Arthur’s stomach and he found himself hoping beyond hope that Gwaine stuck to her noblewomen and seasonal dukes. She was not known to take up with men who spent extended periods in the castle and Arthur hoped that Merlin’s five months were long enough to make him off-limits. Merlin had a habit of letting his eyes linger a little too long and his smile twist a little too mischievously, but he carried an untouchable quality that Arthur wished to see survive as long as possible.

So, really, it was no coincidence that Arthur decided Merlin should accompany him on a journey to one of Camelot’s villages only a few hours after he had seen Merlin taking a morning stroll around the battlements with Gwaine.

Arthur had been too busy sulking to pay much attention to the young girl stuttering about her grievances at the other end of the antechamber, but when he caught her stumbled request for a proxy to come to the village, he leapt at the chance to leave the castle. The girl had originally requested to see Morgana but she had been busy inspecting the lower towns with Gwen and Celia. Receiving Arthur’s attention instead had clearly frightened her, and hearing his promise to visit her village within a week had resulted in a stunned silence which lasted until a servant came in to usher the girl away.

Perhaps it was a little unusual for the king to settle a simple village dispute but, after two weeks, Arthur knew that Merlin needed to leave the castle and see more of ordinary life across the kingdom. It wasn’t just the city folk Arthur wanted to have passage to Avalon, it was all of his subjects. Merlin deserved to see the goodness that existed beyond the castle walls.

****

Arthur was relieved, to say the least, when Merlin requested a horse for the journey, rather than summoning his unicorn. Mid-April was in full, glorious swing and the sun was bright as it seeped into the forest, making the thick ceiling of leaves turn gold and lime. Pink blossoms speckled the path as Arthur and Merlin let their horses meander at their own pace, too caught up in conversation to fret about timekeeping.

“You picked him?” Arthur was saying - drawling, perhaps. “Of all people? Him?”

He gave Merlin a disbelieving look. Will had appeared for a short time that morning to help prepare their steeds but he had addressed Merlin more like a friend than a prince and then disappeared without waiting for his master’s leave. Arthur had never seen anything like.

“Yes, I did,” Merlin chuckled, shaking his head with a grin and then flicking his amused gaze back to Arthur. The blue of his eyes seemed more intense in the sunlight. “I was called from my village at twelve, Arthur. I’d always been odd - I only had one friend. I begged the Sidhe to let me take my mother but they said she was too old and her body too set in its ways to adapt to the magic. I didn’t want to go alone.”

Merlin’s smile faded a little. He looked down at his reins and bit his lip. It made Arthur’s chest wash briefly with coldness - the thought of leaving everything behind at such a young age.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “He’s just such a terrible servant.”

Merlin threw his head back and laughed at that. It made Arthur’s fingers tingle, which was odd because it didn’t sound any more magical than it had the first night Merlin arrived - if anything, it was _more_ human; more imperfect and real than the soft titter Will had drawn out of him. Arthur did his best to shake off his frown before Merlin regained his composure.

“That he is,” Merlin conceded at last, nodding. “But he means a lot to me. Avalon is a wonderful place but there’s one thing you’re not considering.”

“Oh really?” Arthur smiled. “What’s that?”

“Most great king and queens are really old when they die,” Merlin said, giving an overdramatic sigh. “Not always great company when you reach fifteen and you’re desperate for adventure.”

Arthur couldn’t argue with that - he remembered attending insufferably long, stuffy council meetings and advisory sessions at that age. Without Morgana to sneak into his chambers with a stolen jug of ale for midnight chess games, Arthur didn’t know how he would have survived. They had whispered about the lords at Court, creating ridiculous stories about the peculiarities of their estates - sheep housed in their own private bedchambers and women who grew beards and shouted at feasts. Without Morgana to nurture the child in him, Arthur was sure he would have dried up and gone still inside before he reached twenty. He said as much.

Merlin bowed his head. “You see, my lord? We all have our William.”

“Morgana is not my William!” Arthur exclaimed, unable to hold in a bark of laughter. “If she heard you say that, I don’t think you’d see another sunrise, prince of Avalon or not.”

“Fair enough, I apologise,” Merlin said, smirking. “I suppose me and Will were never quite like siblings anyway.”

“What do you mean by that?” Arthur asked, regretting it the moment he saw the glazed look in Merlin’s eyes.

“Oh, he just taught me a lot about myself, I think,” Merlin said, his voice suddenly softer; distracted. “He was the only one there while I was growing up. We were close.”

Arthur nodded stiffly and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. If Merlin was saying what he thought he was saying, then- no, definitely _not_ like siblings.

“Weren’t there any Sidhe princesses who caught your eye?” Arthur teased, trying not to be too obvious in his discomfort.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Not at all,” he said. “There’s not a lot of romance in Avalon, just a lot of romanticising - embellishing stories about battles, executions, ambushes. They’re always at it.”

“I’m sorry to say there’s a lot of that in Camelot as well, so you’ve not escaped anything at my Court.”

Arthur had already spent several evenings recanting tales of great battles to Merlin and boasting of the strength and might of his forbears. It was the kind of entertainment Lancelot would rather lose a limb than miss, and the kind Morgana abhorred.

“But you get romance here too, yeah?” Merlin asked, wetting his bottom lip and making Arthur’s jaw lock with restrained want.

Arthur hummed in agreement. “Yeah,” he said, fast and awkward. “Sometimes.”

He spurred his horse on, suddenly itching to move. He had been ignoring his growing fascination with Merlin because- well, because taking up with someone who wasn’t even sure if they were _dead_ could never be a good thing, but Merlin kept making it more and more bloody difficult for Arthur to resist him.

****

There was something of an edgy, frenzied scrambling about the village when Arthur and Merlin dismounted on the scrape of bare earth at its centre. A small boy in a grubby tunic and worn cloth boots had sprinted out from one of the hedgerows as they approached and scampered ahead, calling out that they had arrived, and so by the time Arthur had dusted himself off and turned to survey his surroundings, the young girl he had met in the castle was standing before him.

“Sire,” she said with a curtsey. She kept her eyes downcast and her fingers were twisted tightly in her faded brown skirt, but the way her blonde hair had escaped from its loose bun to curve around her face was quite pretty. There was a smudge of dirt across her cheek, clearly missed in her rush to prepare for his arrival. The way its dark, rough spread contrasted with her ruddy pink skin was sweet, but nothing like the deep, moist stain wild berries had left on Merlin’s lips at breakfast that morning. Arthur swallowed and adamantly refused to let his mind wander in that direction again.

“Thank you,” he said, polite but proper. “It’s good to see you again, umm-”

“Lenka, sire,” the girl filled in for him, glancing curiously up through her eyelashes. “Welcome to Caerllion.”

“Lenka, of course,” Arthur amended just as Merlin appeared at his side. He turned to introduce the two of them and found Merlin watching him with bright, amused eyes. Arthur was so busy trying not to splutter that he didn’t interject when Merlin leant forwards and took Lenka’s hand with a benign smile.

“I’m Prince Merlin,” he said, his voice soft and his movements far more elegant and poised in his embroidered silver jacket and tight breeches than Arthur could ever dream of being, buckled into layers of clunky chain mail and armour as he was.

Lenka giggled behind her hand when Merlin asked what they could do for her, but Arthur miraculously managed to unclench his jaw and focus through his irritation just long enough to listen this time. She said that the people of Caerllion had done their best to adapt to Camelot’s new values but when magic had begun to manifest in her younger brother, it had been hard for everyone to cope.

“The other children tease him,” she told Merlin, glancing uneasily at the villagers surrounding them but not letting her resolution slip. “They chase him to the old fort and they shout taunts, sometimes even throw things. I don’t know what to do - they won’t listen to me, they won’t believe that he deserves their respect.”

“Alright,” Arthur said, shuffling forwards a little and _finally_ breaking the clasp of Merlin and Lenka’s hands. “Where are there?”

“I’ve gathered them behind my father’s house, sire,” Lenka replied at once, dipping her head again in respect. “Follow me.”

There were eight children milling around between a vegetable patch and a rickety old fence behind one of the cottages. Two of the boys were at least thirteen, but one of the girls was so young that she still seemed unsteady on her feet. A hush fell over them as Arthur rounded the corner. He leant against the cottage wall, folded his arms, and glowered at them. Merlin circled around and stood behind them, his mouth set in a thin, hard line.

“What do you think you are doing?” Arthur said slowly, framing each word with harsh, controlled anger. “There is a young boy in this village who is different from you, yes?”

The children said nothing. Eight pairs of wide, frightened eyes stared up at Arthur until, at last, one girl of about seven years old with light brown bunches nodded shakily.

“And you think he deserves to be teased for this?” Arthur continued, flicking his gaze between all of the children but holding longest on the eldest boys. “You think you have the right to chase him, ridicule him, terrify him?”

A shiver ran through the small gathering and some of the children turned to look at each other; a few were showing signs of guilt, others confusion.

“The laws of this land are clear,” Arthur told them, raising his voice a little and waiting until they were all watching him, reluctantly or not, before speaking again. “You are young citizens of Camelot. You are the future of this realm and if you do not uphold its laws, your homes will fade away and you will be left with nothing but your hatred.”

Merlin shifted behind the children and folded his arms, catching Arthur’s attention. He glanced up to see Merlin watching him closely, his head tilted to the side and his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. After a moment he quirked his eyebrows at Arthur, indicating for him to go on, but Arthur’s voice caught and he could only let out an aborted breath.

He wanted to keep going; he wanted to tell the children that this magical boy was no different from them and that he could do great things for their village, but the words stuck in Arthur’s throat. Merlin was studying him like he was a faded old book with a page missing - like he didn’t know if Arthur truly meant what he was saying. The frown on Merlin’s face made Arthur’s neck prickle with heat.

Merlin had given Arthur that same look in the orphanage when the little girl had conjured up a crude star. Merlin’s eyes had flickered with that same look when he asked Arthur about the merits of sorcerers over dinner; when he had walked in on Arthur and Morgana bickering over Mordred’s sorcery sessions; when they had been crossing the courtyard together and a nearby witch had whispered a spell and swept another off her feet beside the well.

Every single one of Merlin’s calculating glances and stares stacked up inside Arthur’s mind and he felt his shoulders tensing, his muscles locking with discomfort and frustration and misery. They had all been so fleeting, so secondary compared to Merlin’s warm smiles and twinkling eyes, but suddenly Arthur could see them all strung out before him. He could feel the heat and pressure of the dragon’s cave looming down on him as if he was still pacing beneath the castle dungeons, twenty-one and bereaved and furious with his father for keeping such a secret for so long; as if he hadn’t grown up at all.

“You would have done it,” one of the oldest boys muttered, the insolence in his voice breaking through Arthur’s stupor.

“I would have!” he shouted, turning fierce eyes on the children and squeezing his gloved hands into painfully tight fists. Then, quieter, “I would, when I was your age, but not anymore. We know better now in Camelot - _all_ of us know better. We know the truth, and those who know the truth and choose to ignore it are so much worse than those who are ignorant of it from the start. Learn from my mistakes, children, don’t copy them. We have a kingdom to heal and you are the ones we are healing it for. Don’t waste that.”

With one last, meaningful glare, Arthur turned on his heel and strode back around the cottage. Lenka was waiting at the corner and he said to her, loudly so that the children would hear, “If they do it again, fetch me, and I’ll bring the Lady Morgana.”

Lenka nodded, startled, and Arthur swept passed her and back across the village. He was halfway to his horse before he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Merlin, his eyes bright blue and a little wild, holding on to him.

“Arthur,” he panted, blinking a few straggles of fringe from his eyes. The collar of his jacket was twisted and Arthur could see a dip of soft, pale skin at his collarbone. The sight went some way to calming his seething anger.

“Arthur,” Merlin said again. “I want to speak to the boy. Please, can I speak to the boy?”

“Er- yes, of course, how silly of me,” Arthur managed to stutter after a moment. “Yes, you should- _we_ should. You- you should.”

Merlin nodded, still a little breathless, then released Arthur’s arm and hurried over to Lenka, who was watching uncertainly from beside her father’s cottage.

It turned out that the boy had last been seen that morning scrambling up the grassy bank behind the village to hide in the fort. Arthur followed several paces behind Merlin and Lenka, trying his best to keep up a dull conversation with the village leader about crop circulation and the chance of a late harvest.

There was an uncomfortable sheen of sweat across Arthur’s neck and shoulders. His wrists were aching from the strain of suddenly pulling so tight when he had clenched his fists in anger. He felt displaced and strangely vulnerable when he saw some of the older village boys following them up the bank to the stone ruins. Aftershocks from the rush of uncertainty and doubt which Merlin’s eyes had awakened in Arthur were skittering through him, making one of the muscles in his jaw twitch and leaving a gaping, empty hole in his chest where his anger had flared.

Arthur wanted to deal with this in the privacy of his chambers, not at the head of a large group of expectant villagers. He made a few vague comments and eventually managed to take a moment for himself within the ruins, leaving the villagers outside and slowly following Merlin and Lenka to an overgrown, cobbled courtyard less than two hundred feet across.

The boy was about twelve years old. He was lanky and pale, with dark brown hair that didn’t look as though it would ever lie flat. He was crouched beside a tumbledown circular wall - probably an old well - and he watched warily as Merlin approached him. Arthur hung back, his eyes following Merlin’s careful steps from a safe distance, and Lenka paused somewhere between them. She called a soft reassurance to her brother when Merlin reached his side.

Their conversation was far too hushed for Arthur to catch even a word. Merlin perched on the low stone wall beside the boy, making considerable effort not to touch him or stare at him for too long. He smiled at Lenka as he spoke, his forehead occasionally creasing into a small frown - an expression which Arthur was surprised to realise he recognised as Merlin searching for the right words.

After a few minutes, the boy turned and looked up at Merlin, his fear dampening into curiosity, and Arthur watched as Merlin slid down to sit on the ground directly beside him. A little longer passed, then the boy was loosening the tightness in his arms where they were wrapped around his knees - instead crossing his legs just how Merlin was. They looked remarkably similar, mirroring each other’s posture in that way, and Arthur felt as though he was watching Merlin converse with a younger version of himself; the dark haired boy in an outlying village, with no real friends and a soul that didn’t quite fit the narrow world into which it had been born.

“They pushed him down there once,” Lenka said to Arthur’s left, startling him. “The well. He was in there for hours before we found him.”

Arthur nodded solemnly but didn’t say a word. He had no doubt that the village children had been taught to hate magic by their parents, who in turn had learnt from his father’s laws and decrees. Part of him wanted to challenge Lenka; wanted to demand to know whether she blamed King Uther for this, then tell her all the reasons why she was wrong - why Uther had been a great king, pushed astray by betrayal and grief.

Another part of Arthur wanted to grasp Lenka’s hands and beg for forgiveness; tell her he was sorry for never arguing with his father, sorry for never making a stand against his laws. Arthur wanted to apologise for all the children who had learnt that loathing was a legitimate way of life. Arthur wanted to apologise for all the sons and daughters who had burnt at the stake or been lost under the heavy swing of an axe. He wanted to apologise for the digging, gnawing twist of wrongness he still felt when he saw people performing magic in the streets or at the end of castle corridors. He wanted to apologise for not letting the dragon go free.

But Arthur couldn’t apologise. He was the king - not just King Arthur but Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon. To apologise, to ask forgiveness, would be to betray his father’s memory. By the time these village children were parents, hatred of magic would be all but gone from Camelot and no apology would be needed. Arthur had repealed his father’s laws and granted protection, that was enough; that should have been enough.

When Merlin had finally finished speaking to the boy, he got clumsily to his feet and playfully ruffled his hair. They grinned at each other, then Merlin waved goodbye and strode back across the courtyard. The boy’s eyes fixed on Arthur for a few seconds, inquisitive and perhaps a little awestruck. Arthur acknowledged him with a nod before leading Merlin out of the fort and back into the village.

They spent a few more hours in Caerllion. Arthur spoke to the farmer who shared his lands with the village livestock and Merlin spoke to his daughters, who were known among the locals for commandeering a small section of their father's barn and using it as a nursery for orphaned lambs and other young animals. Arthur tried to make a point of discussing the farmer’s admirably positive seasonal report very loudly, but Merlin was far too busy bottle-feeding a two-week-old goat to hear a word that was said.

Arthur spoke to the eight children once more before they left. His vehemence had calmed into a low hum of restlessness and he was able to speak to them with quiet clarity. He told them about when Mordred was training with Morgana at thirteen, and how he had saved a young courtier and his sister from being crushed under a crumbling section of the castle wall.

“The allegiance of a sorcerer is a gift,” Arthur said, mounting his horse and surveying them one last time as he took up the reins. “Be kind to the boy, if not for his well-being then for your own.”

Merlin waved goodbye to Lenka and her brother as they rode out of the village and back towards Camelot. There was an odd silence between Arthur and Merlin until they reached the woods, when a short shower saw them exchange put-upon glances. Arthur tried to offer Merlin the cloak packed away in his saddlebag to keep dry but Merlin refused. He seemed more than happy to throw his head back and let the cold raindrops trickle down his face and neck.

“Doesn’t it rain in Avalon?” Arthur commented, grasping hopelessly at indifference after catching himself staring at the way the water was making Merlin’s already-tight breeches stick to his thighs.

“I think I’ve told you enough about Avalon,” Merlin said with a smile, making no effort to straighten up or even open his eyes.

“Ah yes, you did say you’d be keeping the particulars a secret,” when Merlin didn’t respond to this besides a brief shrug, Arthur cleared his throat and said, “I don’t know if today was really the best example of the goodness that can be found in Camelot. Most people don’t ignore the new laws in that way.”

“Oh, I know,” Merlin said, his voice light, as though Arthur’s need to clarify surprised him.

“I mean it, don’t judge the whole kingdom based on those children’s actions,” Arthur insisted. He regretted not listening to Lenka’s problem more closely at audience and letting his jealousy rule his decision to take Merlin out of the castle.

Merlin sat up and rubbed the water out of his eyes, then smiled at Arthur, his brow a little creased. “Lenka was willing to petition the king just to make her brother’s days a little easier. There are few examples of goodness purer than that,” he said.

Arthur considered this and found that he had no response, so he just nodded gratefully and went back to cursing the rain.

They rode on for a while, slow and relaxed despite the weather. Arthur told a few stories about life at Court and the knights’ misadventures, which prompted Merlin to reel off a long-winded story about when a knight had ridden through Ealdor on his way to a far off kingdom. It had been deep in winter and snow and ice had made the uneven forest paths impassible, so the knight had stayed for weeks. He had taken up refuge in Ealdor’s largest cottage and begun ordering the villagers around.

“Thankfully, Will and I stayed away from most of it,” Merlin said, smiling fondly at the memory. “He hated nobles back then and he’d just learnt about my magic, so he always wanted to be off in the fields, making me burn things or scare the sheep.”

Arthur hummed in acknowledgement but the grin he sent Merlin’s way was a little strained. He couldn’t help wondering if Merlin had been taunted for his differences just the same as the village boy; if Will had defended him or if Merlin had somehow found the strength to defend himself. The similarities in their physical appearance were so striking that Arthur felt itchy and strange just thinking about it - wondering if understanding the boy might mean understanding Merlin as well.

“What did you tell him?” Arthur asked abruptly, staring ahead. “The boy.”

“I told him exactly what he needed to hear,” Merlin replied sharply. Arthur looked over to find a heavy blue stare watching him. “I told him that the king of Camelot was on his side; that he was protected. I told him... I told him that once I was in his shoes, and that maybe one day he could be a prince, too.”

Arthur nodded. “You’re a good man,” he said, the words instinctive - leaving his lips before his mind had properly formed the thought. It made Merlin blush but he didn’t look away.

“So are you,” he said, quiet and almost contemplative. “Although I don’t think you believe it.”

Arthur huffed. A shiver ran down his spine and he wondered, his stomach suddenly clenching in panic, how much Merlin knew - if he thought it was just apprehension and fear, or if he had started to sense the secret Arthur was trying to hide beneath the castle.

“Not many people would if they truly knew me,” Arthur muttered, no longer able to hold Merlin’s gaze. He toyed with his reins for a few long, awful seconds, then tried to huff out a joke. “Just ask Morgana.”

“Morgana believes it with more certainty than any other!” Merlin’s voice was light and clear, entwined with hints of a chuckle, and Arthur experienced a violent twist of nausea. “And d’you know what?” Merlin said in a teasing, dramatic whisper. “I hear she’s always right.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at that, some of the tension draining from him. “I admit, I’m yet to see her proven wrong.”

“And you won’t,” Merlin told him, sounding as certain as Morgana had ever been. “Not on this.”

****

That night, Arthur went back to see the dragon. He demanded information - how had it known that Merlin was in the castle? Could Merlin sense its presence? What exactly did it think it would gain by ruining thousands of ordinary people’s chance at reaching Avalon?

The whole time Arthur paced, the whole time he shouted and cursed, the dragon said nothing. Its round, golden eyes glowed in the dim light of the cave, sliding slowly back and forth as they followed Arthur’s movements, but it would not breath a word. Eventually, overcome with frustration and nagging doubt, Arthur wrenched the torch from its place on the wall and flung it at the creature. He missed by several feet but he didn’t care; he was already storming back towards the upper levels, trying to block out the dragon’s insolent, ringing laughter.

The rest of April passed in a haze of discomfort and agitation. Mordred resurfaced as his old, reliable self after a mortifying private discussion about propriety which left Arthur unable to swallow for several hours and Mordred’s cheeks the same shade of red as his cloak. Having one of his best knights return to some form of normalcy after such a sudden departure was definitely worth the pain, but finding Will more frequently at Merlin’s side was not so gratifying.

Arthur found himself watching them more and more closely as time went by. They were easy and relaxed around each other, sharing jokes and even exchanging a familiar touch every once in awhile - a gentle shove or a brush of their shoulders. Arthur didn’t trust it, but Merlin didn’t seem perturbed by Will’s involvement with Mordred. On the contrary, he frequently sat and watched the knights train just so that Will could fool around with Mordred between duels.

There were a few moments every now and then, after Arthur had cast aside his weapons and handed the session over to Gwaine, that he would look up and catch Merlin’s eyes on him. The onset of early summer warmth added to the exertion of sword practice and left Arthur sweaty and panting every time. He was always flushed and thick with the smell of his own body when he headed off the training grounds, but Merlin usually made a beeline for him anyway. He always seemed more than happy to lean in close and study Arthur’s face and neck while they talked.

After the fiasco at Caerllion, Arthur made a point of attending as many of Morgana’s sorcerers’ council sessions as possible. Merlin had been sitting in on them ever since his stay in Camelot had been extended, which meant that he actually had more experience of them than Arthur, who had always kept his nose out of Morgana’s business. Listening to the sorcerers discuss petitions from the Druids and assess their youngest children’s progress proved much more interesting than Arthur had anticipated. He also got a bright, delighted smile from Mordred every time he settled into his seat beside Morgana.

The majority of Arthur’s focus rested on Merlin throughout every meeting, watching the way his strikingly pretty features curved from indifference to joy over a murmured joke or a positive training report. Every time Merlin’s eyes wandered towards Arthur, he took a deep breath and focused all of his energy on easing the tension out of his shoulders. He didn’t hate Morgana’s sorcerers, he didn’t feel contempt or fear when he looked at them - no, this was something set deep in Arthur’s gut, something drilled into him from birth; to keep at arm’s length those who could overpower him. To protect the throne by protecting himself. It was the raw instinct of it that worried him.

It was after the final April meeting, once the sorcerers had been dismissed and Merlin whisked away by a gaggle of very eager witches, that Morgana cornered Arthur on a narrow spiral staircase.

“Arthur, what’s wrong with you at the moment?” she demanded from a few steps behind him. Arthur couldn’t really ignore her, having feigned deafness more than once already when she had called to him along an empty corridor.

“What do you mean?” he said, dusting off his best bemused expression and turning it on her. “I’m fine.”

Morgana raised one eyebrow, not taking the bait. “You are not _fine,_ ” she said. “You’ve been acting strangely for weeks now. Not only are you sitting in on my council sessions, which you didn’t give two hoots about a month ago, but you’ve been avoiding me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, displaying a petulance he didn’t feel. “I _always_ avoid you.”

“Only when I ask you for things,” Morgana corrected him, folding her arms and climbing a step towards him. “And I haven’t asked you for a damn thing.”

“Look,” Arthur sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and letting his shoulders sag. Avoiding Morgana hadn’t been deliberate at first, he just felt so guilty whenever he spent time alone with her these days. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

Morgana gave him a sad smile and climbed the remaining steps between them. Arthur pressed himself back against the wall to give them both room and Morgana used his momentary distraction to reach over and place a soft hand on his arm. She fiddled with the thin folds of his red shirt, which he was choosing over his chain mail more and more frequently as the weather changed, and then looked at him earnestly.

“You’re supposed to talk to me when that happens, not shut me out,” she said, her voice quiet enough not to echo beyond their small segment of the staircase. “This arrangement goes both ways, Arthur. I know you’re the king but I’m here to help you.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur said again, the heavy crease in his brow confirming that he was anything but. “I don’t need to talk.”

“ _Arthur-_ ”

“Morgana, please,” Arthur hated trying to impose his authority on his sister - it never worked.

“Listen to me,” she said, speaking over him but somehow still keeping her voice a low whisper. “I know what this is about,” Arthur’s eyes widened, his stomach dropped and he felt his skin flush pink in panic. “You like Merlin.”

“Oh,” Arthur choked out in surprise, blinking rapidly. “Oh- I- err, I don’t think-”

“You should dance with him at Calan Mai,” Morgana continued, smiling at Arthur with a mixture of fondness and wry mischief. “No one would mind. In fact, they’d probably be glad - it might make you bearable again.”

Arthur nodded blankly, so relieved that Morgana didn’t know about the dragon that he couldn’t quite bring himself to care that the whole Court seemed to have recognised his somewhat erratic desire for Merlin.

“I’ll- I’ll think about it,” he stuttered, quickly becoming aware that failing to reply at all would only deepen Morgana’s suspicions. “Thanks.”

Morgana smirked and patted Arthur’s arm encouragingly. “I’ve seen the way he acts around you as well,” she said, gathering her skirts and making her way back down the stairs. “I’m sure he’ll be falling over himself at the chance.”

Arthur stared after her for several seconds, trying to draw a balance between the numbing relief of not having been discovered and the nervous twist of excitement at having his own private suspicions echoed by someone else.

The dragon had said something about Merlin changing things for Arthur and, although usually he ignored every poisonous thing that spilled from the foul creature’s mouth, it seemed as though there might be a glimmer of truth in that statement. Over his short reign, Arthur had already become a pioneer for change, so really it was nothing more than his duty to test out the potential transformation that was Merlin.


	5. Chapter 5

Calan Mai was Arthur's favourite festival. It was celebrated on the first of May throughout Albion, and symbolised the start of summer. Its sister festival, September’s Calan Gaeaf, was often judged the more enchanting of the two, but Arthur loved summer. It meant longer hunting parties and late evening strolls around the battlements; it meant Guinevere leading small groups of children from the orphanage out of the castle for picnics. Summer meant fruit and sunshine and fewer men lost to sickness in patrols of the outer villages. Summer was what breathed new life into Arthur's beloved kingdom.

Every year, the final days of April were filled with bustling preparations. Arthur could hardly take three steps out of his chambers without passing servants carrying bundles of fresh flowers between rooms or packing away dusty winter linens and shaking out their thin summer counterparts. Excitement, not distress, became the cause of Arthur’s tight stomach and thrumming muscles. He had been directing arrangements for Calan Mai since he was fifteen and the process was comforting and familiar.

By the 29th day of April, the field opposite the training grounds had been completely cleared of stalls and tents. At its centre, there was an enormous cauldron of dried leaves and twigs which had been saved in the castle cellars since the autumn. Many stable boys were pulled off their normal duties and sent to help. They dug out small crevices and filled them with polished wooden poles that stretched nine or ten feet into the air. Then, under strict direction from some of the senior maids, the boys clambered up and strung ropes between the poles, each entwined with sweet-smelling flowers and dangling summer fruits.

Mordred helped with the final touches. The grass was dotted with clusters of candles, each protected by a clear glass ball, and he stood on a small stage beside the cauldron, leading a large party of adolescent sorcerers as they enchanted the glass to stay cool and avoid unfortunate burns.

On the last morning of April, most of the castle servants seemed to have been commandeered by Arthur’s chief chamberlain, and could be seen carrying chairs from the Great Hall to the festival ground. Arthur watched from the lowest level of the battlements, calling instructions every now and then, but mainly letting the warmth and joy of the coming night wash over him - Nos Galan Mai, the night before the first of May, was his favourite part of the festivities.

Merlin had been present on the fringes of Arthur’s awareness for the entirety of the preparations and he was there that morning, too, his fingers wrapped idly around one of the wooden poles as he spoke quietly with Celia. Every time she blushed and stared at her feet, Merlin would just smile, point at one of the passing servants or the flowers above their heads, and say something that made her grin and follow his gaze. During one such interaction, Gwaine ambled up to Merlin’s side and greeted him with a punch to the arm. Arthur was so busy watching the two of them hug that he almost didn’t notice one of the servants trying to unlock the small wooden chest between his and Morgana’s chairs.

By the time he had finished berating the man for being so incompetent, Gwaine had disappeared, but Merlin was smirking up at Arthur in obvious, exasperated amusement. Celia, meanwhile, was wrapping herself passionately around her stable boy - shy in all things except _that,_ it seemed.

When evening finally fell over Camelot, the Court made its way to the festival ground in a kind of informal procession, with Morgana, Gwen and Lancelot at its head and Merlin and Arthur following close behind. They walked in step, not speaking much but instead enjoying the warmth of the summer air and admiring the deep pinks and purples which were filling the sky. Arthur had been disappointed to learn that Merlin already knew the Calan Mai festival well, having celebrated it in Ealdor before leaving for the Sidhe Court - it meant that he would not be needing detailed explanations of all the traditions and practices as the evening went by.

Nevertheless, Arthur had ensured that he and Merlin were seated close together - even closer than he and Morgana, in fact - and that Gwaine was as far away as possible without having to stand among the commoners who had come up from the lower towns to watch. She still found a way to pass by, wink knowingly at Arthur, and engage Merlin in conversation on some insignificant matter or other. Once she was gone, there was nothing to do but wait for the rest of the nobles to file in behind Arthur, Morgana and the rest of the high table, seated, naturally, at the front. It was the low hum of conversation around them and the risk of awkwardness that gave Arthur the courage to speak.

“You and Gwaine seem to have become quite good friends,” he said, his eyes fixed on the elaborately dressed servant who was trying to light the twigs and leaves in the cauldron.

“Yeah,” Merlin said softly. “She’s brilliant.”

“Hmm,” Arthur hummed crossly. “She’s quite a knight.”

“She’s a very distinctive individual,” Merlin chuckled. Arthur could see him waving at Mordred from the corner of his eye. “I’m glad to have met her.”

“I’m sure you two will be very happy together,” Arthur said with a snap, knowing he sounded petulant and controlling but feeling justified in his disappointment. Clearly Morgana had been wrong, clearly Merlin had meant romance with _Gwaine_ when he had licked his lips on the way to Caerllion, not with Arthur.

There was a frown in Merlin’s voice when he spoke. “What?”

Arthur finally looked at him, then had to swallow his words for a moment because Merlin looked so beautiful in the muted evening light. His clothes were similar to those he had worn at the greeting feast, but his overcoat was a deep, gorgeous red instead of blue.

“It’s clear you’re close,” Arthur said at last. “I think the two of you would make a great-”

“Oh,” Merlin exclaimed, his loud laugh cutting Arthur off mid-compliment. “No, Arthur, no. She’s just been telling me about Ealdor.”

This time, it was Arthur’s turn to frown. “What?” he said, confused.

“Ealdor,” Merlin repeated. “I’m not allowed to know that much about it - in fact, I try not to go looking for information because it always makes me worried or homesick - but it turns out that after she left her father’s court, before you met her in that tavern, Gwaine spent some time travelling between villages and helping where she could.”

Arthur nodded. He knew a little about Gwaine’s life before Camelot; her father had tried to marry her off and when she refused, he had sent her to live in a convent on the border of Mercia. Gwaine, of course, had escaped her escort and lived on the road for a few years before coming across Arthur and his men on their way home from settling a few banditry problems.

“Ealdor was one of the villages she visited,” Merlin told him, starting to toy with the hem of his sleeveless overcoat. “Apparently there was a man, Kanen, who was stealing grain and threatening the villagers. Gwaine stopped him.”

“I see,” was all Arthur said. He kept his voice even and uninterested in an effort to hide the relief flooding through him; all those private, dulcet looks he had seen Merlin give Gwaine were not lustful or infatuated, they were grateful. Arthur breathed a little more calmly as he turned to mutter something to Morgana. He was so glad to feel the last vestiges of doubt slip away that he only just managed to squash the urge to grin like an idiot.

“I wasn’t aware that she took up with men at all,” Merlin said after a pause. “I’ve only ever seen her with women at feasts.”

“Oh, she does,” Arthur confirmed, then regretted it instantly. Merlin’s interest in Gwaine might be peaking and there was a very good chance Arthur was about to stab himself in the foot. “But not often. She won’t go near men who live in Camelot, only those who are on very short visits.”

“Why?” Merlin asked, his brow furrowed.

Arthur sighed. “She had some problems when she first came here,” he said. “Sometimes the knights take up with each other, it’s never been a matter of great controversy. Before my father’s death, it was even acceptable for me to spend a night or two with one of them.” Arthur pointedly did not look at Merlin when he said this, feeling his cheeks heat. “But they treated her differently. If she slept with them then they would mock her in training the next day, talk about her as if she wasn’t there, refuse to duel with her like they pitied her or thought less of her just because she had sought pleasure like they did. It was... unpleasant.”

Merlin let out a huff of breath. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“I dismissed the main culprits, of course,” Arthur continued. “Sent them to positions as far away from my Court as possible but, since then, Gwaine is very careful about which men she sleeps with. Never a knight, no matter how much she trusts him, never a lord or duke who might think he has some power over her, and never a noble who spends extended periods in Camelot.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” Merlin conceded. Arthur was forced to agree.

After that, it wasn’t long before the traditional battle between winter and summer took place. A man draped in several layer of pale clothing climbed onto the small stage beside the flaming cauldron, his long, silver sleeves rippling as he moved and shreds of fraying white fabric billowing from his shoulders as he spun on the spot, wielding a stick of blackthorn. He was met by a woman in long, flowing skirts of bright greens and yellows. She had ribbons fluttering from her wrists and around her waist there was a thick garland of wildflowers. She pointed her willow wand at winter and began to chant.

The crowd gasped and clapped as summer and winter fought on stage, shouting ancient curses and calling upon their own attributes as forms of attack - winter summoned frost and bitter winds but summer defeated these by rallying May sunshine and releasing pollen onto the breeze. The battle culminated when winter began casting handfuls of straw and dry underbrush at summer, which she caught and flung into the cauldron. Winter fell to the ground and, with the help of children dressed in more bright colours, summer covered his body in small birch branches and young ferns.

When summer was proclaimed victorious, the flame in the cauldron bubbled up and sparks glittered, golden, against the darkening sky. Everyone cheered and Arthur couldn't help glancing at Merlin. His eyes were wide with delight and his smile was almost blindingly bright - perhaps the celebrations in Ealdor were not quite so grand.

“That was amazing,” Merlin breathed, leaning in so that only Arthur could hear as the staging was cleared away. “Is it always like that?”

Arthur couldn’t help his proud grin. “Usually,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in even closer until he could smell Merlin’s skin and see the hints of stubble lining his jaw. “I think the seamstresses might have made a special effort, knowing you would be in the audience.”

Merlin blushed and his eyes flicked down to Arthur’s mouth. He drew a shaky breath and Arthur felt his stomach drop, his mind racing with the maddening need to kiss and the itchy, uncomfortable knowledge that everyone around them would see. Two seconds passed, maybe three, then Merlin bit his lip and looked away.

A sharp jab in his back made Arthur pull up and away from Merlin. He turned to see Morgana glaring at him with a sternness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was time to crown the May King and Queen. He inclined his head and Morgana took his leave to stand up and begin the ceremony.

It was little more than fun, really. A small committee would meet a few days before the end of April and nominate two members of the Court who were deemed to deserve the honour of sharing the May crowns. Morgana always carried out the actual presentation but Arthur usually stood by just so that he wasn’t idle for the entire evening. This time, when Morgana completed her speech about the merits of this year’s king and queen and beckoned for Arthur to open the chest between their seats and retrieve the crowns, he shook his head. Instead, he motioned for Merlin to take his place.

There was a slight tremor in Merlin’s fingers as he accepted the key from Arthur and knelt beside him to unlock the chest. The same May crowns had been in use for years in Camelot but it was still tradition that they be kept hidden until Nos Galan Mai, worn for that one evening, then locked away again until the following year.

The May King’s crown was woven from silver birch branches and dotted with glittering jewels. Merlin passed it reverently to Morgana, who called out Lancelot’s name to a roaring cheer at the far right of the cauldron, where Myrtle was desperately trying to shush the orphans. Beaming, Lancelot stood beside Morgana in his crown and watched Guinevere approach to be crowned his queen. Her crown was made of dark woven birch and glittered with ancient gold coins. Arthur couldn’t see Morgana’s face but he did see how Guinevere looked up at her, smiling as she placed the crown upon her head.

After that, it was Lancelot and Gwen’s duty to begin the first dance. They skipped, hand-in-hand, around the cauldron to the sound of merry music. There were shouts of joy from the crowd as commoners and nobles alike rose to join them.

Arthur was glad to see servants finally bringing jugs of wine and mead from the kitchens. He beckoned for two full goblets and presented one to Merlin when he returned to his seat. The mead was made with woodruff, traditional for Calan Mai, and they both drank deeply as they watched the dancers. It was turning into a beautiful evening, lit not only by the bonfire in the cauldron but also the glass globes of candlelight, which twinkled among the swarms of people laughing and drinking on the grass.

“What do you think?” Arthur asked Merlin, watching him closely as he took a gulp from his goblet and closed his eyes, enjoying the sweet scent of the herbs.

“I think it’s magical,” Merlin sighed once he had opened his eyes. “I feel as though I could be back in Avalon.”

“But you’re not,” Arthur said, leaning in conspiratorially again and hoping Merlin would do the same.

“No,” Merlin smirked and his eyes glinted. “I’m with you.”

Arthur made a small, involuntary sound at the back of his throat, which shocked him into pulling back and reaching for a bowl of fruit that was being passed between the nobles still seated behind him. He took a handful of grapes and offered some to Merlin, then quickly ate his own, very aware of the way Merlin’s eyes were following the movements of his jaw and throat.

“Will you not be dancing tonight, my lord?” Merlin murmured, his fingers brushing Arthur’s thigh in what could easily have been an accident but _wasn’t._ He lifted his eyebrows in challenge when Arthur looked at him.

“The dance tonight is different,” Arthur said, his voice catching. “You know that.”

Merlin smiled innocently and took another sip of mead. “Everybody danced in Ealdor,” he said.

“Well, in Camelot, to dance around the bonfire with someone at Calan Mai is to declare that you are of one spirit. It is a dance of love.”

That was the saying throughout Albion; Nos Galan Mai was sometimes known as Ysbrydnos, the spirit night, when old spirits were awakened and new spirits declared their fealty to each other. Merlin must have known that - even children understood its significance.

“Surely it’s not always so serious,” Merlin teased, brushing his fingers along Arthur’s thigh again and leaving them there. “Not with all this laughter and drink.”

Arthur took another gulp of mead to try and clear the thickness in his throat, then gently touched the tips of his fingers to the back of Merlin’s hand. “Not always,” he admitted. “But it’s different when you’re king. For me to dance with a member of the Court tonight, even in jest, could be considered akin to a proposal.”

Merlin nodded and glanced over at the dancers. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Being so important, everyone must be watching your every move. If they were to see you smile and enjoy yourself like a normal human being just once, the whole kingdom would fall to ruin.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur said reflexively, not really meaning it. He had never danced at Calan Mai, besides perhaps once or twice as a boy, when Morgana had been young enough to feel justified in pouting if she wasn’t asked. Dancing wouldn’t satisfy the desperate need thrumming beneath Arthur’s skin, anyway - he needed to get Merlin alone. Ignoring the nervous skittering in his stomach, Arthur cleared his throat and tried for nonchalance. “Although, I admit I’ve been sitting for far too long. Shall we walk awhile?”

It was easy to get to their feet and slip away without being noticed. Arthur picked up a bowl of wine that had been left on one of the seats they passed, and carried it close to his chest as they walked. The music and laughter quickly faded to faint sounds as Arthur and Merlin dawdled across the training grounds. Only once the lights of the festival were out of sight, and there was nothing but the full moon to guide them, did Arthur take his chances and look over at Merlin.

The deep red fabric of his overcoat looked almost pale grey without the warm firelight to catch in its stitching. Arthur’s own formal shirt was dark blue and he could feel the tails of his long, brown coat against his calves as he walked. Merlin smiled at Arthur, ran a hand through his hair, and indicated a patch of grass just ahead of them.

“We could stop here if you like,” he said, his voice lifting like a question. His teeth were sinking into his bottom lip again and Arthur nodded, nervous and eager all at once. Merlin dropped down and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Arthur handed him the bowl of wine. It was elderberry, little more than two sips, but Merlin accepted it gratefully, lifting it to his lips as Arthur sat down beside him. They were looking out over the lands beyond the castle - at the tops of trees, which were dimly reflecting the moonlight, and the deep, black expanse of fields beyond. The sky was almost clear, speckled with countless stars. Arthur reached out and placed a hand on Merlin’s knee, his whole body washing with heat at the warm skin he could feel through Merlin’s breeches.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, reluctant to break the tension of the moment but knowing it was the right thing to do - to ask. He turned and found Merlin watching him intently, the empty bowl in his hands forgotten. “I know you’re a guest here but you owe me nothing, so if you don’t want-”

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, leaning forward little by little, his eyes locked on Arthur’s mouth. “You really don’t need to worry.”

That was it. All of the thoughts circling at the back of Arthur’s head - about what Merlin knew and didn’t know, about how important maintaining diplomacy was if he ever wanted to win over the Sidhe - disappeared in one moment of overwhelming desire and gratitude. Arthur grasped Merlin’s face, leant in, and pressed their lips together.

Merlin made a soft, desperate sound and Arthur was dimly aware of a muffled thud as the bowl landed on the soft grass and Merlin buried his fingers in Arthur’s hair, pulling him closer. The kiss was warm and wet, and Arthur hoped it would never end. His nose was full of the scent of Merlin, a little musky and so very human, and he could taste the wine on Merlin’s lips. Merlin’s fingers slid back through Arthur’s hair to cup his jaw, so tender and full of longing that Arthur wanted to wrap himself around Merlin and never let go.

“Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin whispered against his skin, pulling back and blinking as if to check that it was really Arthur he was kissing. Arthur rubbed their noses together and smiled, then shifted up onto his knees and urged Merlin to do the same.

At that angle, it was easier for Arthur to slide his arms around Merlin’s waist and pull their chests in tight. They kissed with more force then, panting and parting their lips, and Arthur ran his fingers up and down Merlin’s back, tracing the raised embroidery of his overcoat. When Arthur dug his thumbs into either side of Merlin’s waist, Merlin gasped and Arthur took the chance to push his tongue past Merlin’s lips; licking into his mouth, tasting his tongue and his teeth, letting him know just how desperately he was wanted.

Merlin’s hands splayed across Arthur’s shoulder blades and he let out another whimper, meeting Arthur’s tongue with his own and pressing back into Arthur’s mouth, chasing the taste of mead.

They kissed like that for a long time, pushing and pulling for dominance in subtle shifts, neither truly caring who won in the end. Arthur’s knees began to ache, small pains travelling up his legs from the cool ground. When he tried to ease the pressure by moving, he nudged the bowl into Merlin’s leg, and the startled yelp Merlin gave at the unexpected touch had them breaking apart to stifle their laughter.

Eventually, they settled with Merlin leaning back on his elbows and Arthur stretched out over him, kissing the corners of his mouth and mumbling against his skin as he slowly undid the buttons of Merlin’s overcoat. Underneath, Merlin was wearing his thin white shirt and Arthur barely contained a growl as he flattened his palm against Merlin’s stomach. He slid his hand upwards until he was brushing his thumb over Merlin’s nipple.

Merlin moaned into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur pulled back to gaze down Merlin’s body, taking in the small, hard nubs of his nipples just visible in the pale light. There was heat pooling in Arthur’s stomach and he was tempted to suggest that they stayed like that all night; kissing in the grass with the hum of laughter and music faint in the distance and Arthur’s hands exploring Merlin’s warm, willing body.

“I thought you might be a noisy one,” Arthur muttered, pressing his lips to Merlin’s ear.

“I can be quieter if you want,” Merlin said, his voice low and ragged. “Maybe silent.”

“Don’t you dare,” Arthur warned, then nipped Merlin’s earlobe and took his mouth in another rough kiss.

A little later, when Merlin’s hair was ruffled beyond saving and his fingers were digging bruises into Arthur’s lower back, they pulled apart and flopped on the grass beside each other, smiling and laughing and trading ill-thought-out insults.

“Well, that was better than dancing,” Merlin sighed at last, rolling onto his side and propping himself up to look down at Arthur.

“If there’s one thing I know,” Arthur drawled, tiredness dragging at his words but the happy twist in his stomach keeping him from drifting off. “It’s how to treat you ladies.”

Merlin tried to pinch Arthur for that but he just laughed and gave Merlin a teasing grin.

“Would you have?” Merlin asked after a short while, sounding guilty, as though he knew it was too soon for such a question. “If I _were_ a lady, would you have danced with me?”

Arthur sat up, the movement so sudden and sharp that Merlin flinched. Arthur touched his thumb to the stubbled skin beneath Merlin’s chin and guided him into a soft kiss.

“No,” Arthur said simply once they had pulled apart. “I just didn’t want everyone watching. They see me only as king and- well, that wasn’t why I wanted this. It’s for my sanity, not for politics.”

Merlin snorted with laughter and shook his head. “I suppose, if it was political, you would have tried marrying me off to Morgana.”

“She’d kill me long before it was final!” Arthur laughed. He shoved Merlin’s shoulder when he pretended to be offended. “Oh, shut up. You know what she’s like.”

“Well, I’ve told you already that the Sidhe don’t see much point in romance,” Merlin said, running his fingers across the back of Arthur’s hand in a feather-light touch. “So no one would agree to a mortal marriage on my end, however advantageous.”

“I’m not sure,” Arthur said, tilting his head and pretending to consider Merlin closely for a moment. “I don’t think you could ever do better than a High Priestess.”

“I’ve managed a king, haven’t I?” Merlin exclaimed, indignant. “An _unmarried_ king. Everyone knows you’re much easier to convince once you’ve been forced to bed the same woman for a few years.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed, settling down on his back again to gaze up at the stars.

“Can I ask why that is?” Merlin said. “You must have had plenty of offers for your hand.”

“I did,” Arthur said. “But I didn’t want to get married.”

Merlin lay down beside Arthur, watching him rather than the stars, and started playing with the laces of Arthur’s shirt. “Why not?” he asked, quiet and curious. It took a long time for Arthur to answer.

“My father was in the process of assessing several betrothals when he died,” he managed at last. “But, once I became king, I was far too busy trying to bring order to the chaos that came from lifting the ban on magic and reshuffling the Court to consider which princess came with the best dowry.”

“You were too busy?” Merlin repeated, his scepticism obvious. “It’s as simple as that? You’ve been too busy for seven years?”

“It’s not simple,” Arthur said, defensive. “Not at all.”

Merlin didn’t push this time, he just watched Arthur in silence, rubbing his fingers up and down Arthur’s chest and waiting for the rest of his answer.

“Changing all of those things was extremely difficult for me,” Arthur explained, painfully aware of the fact that he was telling Merlin things he didn’t even feel comfortable telling Morgana - and of how it didn’t feel strange at all, just a little frightening. “I learnt a few things about my father which changed how I saw him forever - damaged my view of him; my memories. He had always been a great father to me, and for years I’d wanted to follow his lead, I’d wanted to raise a son of my own to take the throne, but not after that. I couldn’t imagine marrying and raising a child just for that child to go through the same thing I did. What if my decisions were wrong and he had to spend his whole reign solving them? Trying to cling to some imaginary, childhood vision of me even though every day he was facing facts that showed, plain as day, that I wasn’t really that way at all. No, I couldn’t do that.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said softly, his fingers tightening in Arthur’s shirt as if he was trying to hold him back from fading away into the moonlight.

“And anyway, I had Morgana then,” Arthur carried on, smiling although he didn’t really feel it. “She wouldn’t exactly have relished the idea of a new queen telling her what to do. Succession hasn’t been an enormous problem; after the two of us, the crown has plenty of cousins who would do just fine.”

Merlin leant forwards and kissed Arthur’s cheek. It was quick, little more than a small, affectionate gesture, but then he returned for another and another. Merlin trailed soft, dry kisses across Arthur’s cheek until he reached his mouth and plunged his tongue inside. There was something needy and desperate in the way Merlin kissed Arthur then, like he wanted to press comfort into every inch of Arthur’s body. Arthur gave in to it; let Merlin grip his arm and push him down into the grass. He licked and nipped at Arthur’s bottom lip, moaning softly from time to time as he tried to express his sympathy and shared hurt.

It was another half hour before they finally stopped kissing and dragged themselves to their feet. They made their way back to the castle with their shoulders brushing, kissed goodnight against the castle wall, and headed to their own separate chambers - which suddenly seemed unbearably far apart.

  
  
**“Festival Scene” by achelseabee ([x](http://achelseabee.livejournal.com/2712.html))**   


****

Breakfast the next morning was an odd mixture of hilarious and mortifying. Merlin was late. He stumbled in, looking flushed and ruffled, and murmured an apology to Morgana before taking a seat beside Arthur. They didn’t look at each other but Arthur couldn’t help smirking into his food anyway. He tried to cover his amusement with his goblet, then his hand, before finally resorting to an occasional cough to subvert snorts of laughter. He almost lost himself to the bubbling joy in his chest when he felt Merlin’s fingers link loosely with his below the table.

Merlin didn’t say a word for the whole meal, instead apparently focusing all of his energy on being as clumsy as possible. He scraped his chair loudly when he sat down, dropped his knife on his plate so many times that Arthur lost count, and even knocked a (thankfully, almost empty) jug of water over. Morgana kept casting the two of them suspicious looks, but Guinevere was chattering away enthusiastically about the orphans staging their own Calan Mai and she clearly didn’t have the heart to interrupt.

As soon as everyone was finished, Arthur got to his feet and nudged Merlin into doing the same. Lancelot tried to invite them to join him, Gwen and Morgana for a stroll around the gardens but Arthur shook his head.

“Sorry, we can’t,” he said before Merlin could open his mouth. “I’ve got to oversee the servants clearing up from last night. It’s going to take most of the day, since Morgana can’t spare her sorcerers to help.”

Here, Arthur gave his sister a tight-lipped look. Usually, it took less than an hour to clear away the mess from Nos Galan Mai, but Morgana was still irritated by Arthur’s repeated refusals to release Mordred from sword practice, so she had, spitefully and with obvious glee, withdrawn her sorcerers’ help.

“I said Merlin could join me,” Arthur finished, trying to sound as authoritative as possible. “He’s very interested in those crowns of yours.”

“Is he really?” Morgana said, her disbelief clear in the flatness of her tone.

Everyone turned to look at Merlin, whose eyes widened comically. He cleared his throat and said quietly, “Very, my lady.”

Guinevere’s calculating gaze was piercing and it made Arthur feel a little uneasy. He nodded to himself and then to the rest of the table, before taking Merlin by the elbow and steering him out of the room. They walked at a fast pace, almost a march, until there were several corridors and one whole flight of stairs between them and the prying eyes of their friends.

They stopped beside an old tapestry, faded in places by the glare of the sun where it streamed through the windows on the other side of the corridor. Arthur leant idly back against the wall. He was just about to reach for Merlin, perhaps pull him in by the waist and kiss the smooth expanse of skin visible beneath his bent collar, when Merlin spoke.

“I can’t come with you,” he said, wringing his hands together and not looking Arthur in the eye. “I can come and find you a bit later but I can’t come right now.”

Arthur frowned, his hands dropping back to his sides. “You can’t come to oversee the servants?” he asked hesitantly. “Merlin, I wasn’t serious about that. I’ll need to drop by the festival ground this afternoon to check on progress but they’re perfectly capable of organising themselves.”

Merlin’s uncomfortable expression didn’t change. “Even so, I need to go back to my chambers,” he said. “Just for a few hours.”

A chill settled over Arthur’s muscles. He had thought that perhaps the two of them could go and sit in the sunshine on the battlements, out of sight, but Merlin looked unhappy and uneasy. His clothes were haphazard and dishevelled; lacking their usual pristine, as though he had been distracted while dressing. Arthur folded his arms and straightened up, his stomach tight.

“If you’ve changed your mind,” he started, speaking slowly because forcing the words out hurt a surprising amount. “Then we can just forget-”

“No!” Merlin said suddenly, loud and urgent. “No no no! That’s not it, no,” he shook his head. “I’ve just got to- I’ve... It’s my chambers. I need to sort them out.”

“Well, what’s wrong with them?” Arthur asked, swallowing his relief. Merlin’s guest quarters were some of the nicest in the castle, he couldn’t understand why there would be a problem.

“Mess,” Merlin said, sounding apologetic. “Will has been better since you talked to Mordred but I think last night was an exception for them and- well, there was an incident when I got back after the festival last night.”

Merlin had flushed bright red and was staring fixedly at the floor. Arthur nodded along, not entirely surprised by Will’s absence that morning. He might have been too preoccupied to pay much attention to Mordred and Will the night before but it didn’t take much to imagine the kind of liberties a night of romantic festivities would have granted them.

“Hmm,” Arthur hummed, his mind locked onto one phrase. “An incident?” he said, confused. “What kind of incident?”

Merlin blushed even harder. “Oh, nothing,” he said, breathless. “Nothing. It’s just that sometimes my magic can shift things. You know, while I sleep and... that.”

“Alright,” Arthur said slowly, considering what exactly that might mean - moving candlesticks? Cabinets? _Windows?_ “I’ll help you clean up if you like.”

“It’s really okay,” Merlin replied, still sounding a little strained. “I’m sure it won’t take me that long.”

“Merlin,” Arthur sighed. “I want to help. There are no council meetings on May the first, no training sessions, and now there’s no Morgana, Gwen or Lancelot to talk to. I’m at a bit of a loose end if I’m not with you.”

Merlin bit his lip in a failed attempt to stifle a smile and Arthur groaned inwardly at how truly pathetic that had sounded. Merlin accepted his help at last and they set off for his chambers, their hands brushing as they walked.

****

It turned out that when Merlin had said mess, he really meant it. The state of his chambers was abysmal. There were clothes strewn across the backs of chairs and left in heaps on the floor. His blankets had been abandoned in a lumpy knot of thinly woven fabric at the centre of his bed and the curtains were still drawn, blocking out the summer sun and casting the whole room into semi-darkness. Not even the table had escaped, with broken, discarded quills dribbling ink onto the wood and a few plates of food piled at its centre. There was parchment spread out across the table and a chair, none of it in any discernible order. Some of the furniture had even shifted across the floor, left at odd angles with drawers and doors hanging open.

Arthur opened his mouth, found that there was nothing he could say, and promptly closed it again.

“It’s not all me,” Merlin said from behind him, closing the door and coming to stand at Arthur’s side. “Like I said, my magic got a bit... um, excited last night. Will usually makes some effort to tidy up but he hasn’t come back this morning and, honestly, I don't think I'd survive the teasing if he saw this. It's definitely taken me by surprise - there's never been this much damage before.”

“What on earth were you doing?” Arthur asked, a little aghast.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Merlin insisted, a blush leaving him struggling to hold Arthur’s gaze. “I was just going to bed.”

Arthur thought about the night before, how they had kissed goodbye just outside the courtyard; how he had pressed Merlin back against the cool stone wall, cupped his face with both hands and licked into his mouth, wet and desperate. When he got back to his chambers, Arthur had changed for bed in a daze and dropped beneath his blankets without fully realising what he was doing, his hand already around his dick, stroking hard as his mind dragged back over the evening; over the feeling of having Merlin under him, over him, his tongue in Arthur’s mouth.

A small, aborted sound escaped Arthur’s throat as he thought about Merlin doing the same - about his furniture _moving_ as his orgasm hit - and he hurriedly looked away from Merlin’s face and began tidying up.

It only took an hour or two. Merlin picked up his clothes and folded them back into cupboards and drawers while Arthur focused mainly on realigning the furniture. He hadn’t been in these chambers since Merlin had taken up residence in them but, once the curtains were drawn and the floor was cleared, Arthur was reminded just how lovely they were. The windows overlooked the training grounds with a clear view across the lower town. The space inside was open and bright, smelling faintly of lavender from a collection of dried bundles sitting in a vase beside the bed.

When Arthur walked over to gather up the mess on the table, Merlin stopped him.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice surprisingly close. “I’ll call a servant for that later.”

Arthur turned to find Merlin only a few paces away. He was smiling and eyeing Arthur unabashedly, the combination edged with a soft, seductive quality that had the pit of Arthur’s stomach tickling with heat.

"Just as well," Arthur smiled, straightening up. "My table isn't much better. George always clears it for me."

Merlin stepped closer, gaze intent. "Thank you for helping," he said. "I suppose I should be honoured."

Arthur huffed and shook his head. "Well, I don't do this often," he breathed, trailing off as Merlin moved closer again.

Once they were chest to chest, Merlin wrapped his arms around Arthur's neck, slipped his thigh between Arthur's legs, and kissed him. Merlin’s lips parted for Arthur without preamble, warm and wet and willing. He slid his tongue along Arthur’s and moaned when Arthur’s hands came to rest on his hips. Arthur moaned back and pulled Merlin tighter against him, loving the drag of Merlin’s thigh against his cock.

Merlin was pressing Arthur back against the edge of the table, his eyes closed and his fingers caressing slowly through the hair at Arthur’s nape - lost in their kiss.

“I’ve wanted you this whole time,” he mumbled against Arthur’s lips, his voice ragged. “Ever since that first feast. I was nervous to speak in front of you, I wanted- I wanted-”

Merlin abandoned his final words in favour of opening his mouth even wider for Arthur’s tongue. Arthur’s cock was stirring, hardening more with each of Merlin’s moans. He was worried it was too fast - that Merlin would push him off when he felt it - but then Arthur moved his hands down to cup Merlin’s arse and Merlin was gasping, pushing forwards and up, and his cock was grinding against Arthur’s hipbone, hard and hot through his breeches.

“Merlin,” Arthur huffed, breaking away from Merlin’s mouth to pant against his cheek. He moved his fingers a little lower until they were brushing the crease between Merlin’s thighs and arse.

Merlin kissed Arthur’s jaw, sucked lightly at his skin, and breathed into Arthur’s ear. He pushed forwards again and rubbed himself against Arthur’s hip, giving a quiet whine. Arthur turned and captured Merlin’s mouth with his again. He cradled Merlin’s head in one hand, holding him gently as he walked them backwards towards the bed.

It was with a smirk that Merlin flattened himself on top of the bed, ruffling the blankets that Arthur had smoothed neatly across the mattress. Merlin left his feet dangling off the edge as Arthur climbed up beside him, resting on his hands and knees and leaning down to kiss him again. The smirk disappeared when Arthur started palming Merlin’s cock through his breeches, swallowing the gasps Merlin made against his lips.

“What were you really doing, Merlin?” Arthur said, knowing he was losing it and not caring at all. “What were you doing last night?”

Merlin shifted underneath Arthur, lifted his arm and tugged at the laces of Arthur’s breeches. They came undone quickly and then Arthur was the one gasping, Merlin’s name on his lips as his fingers wrapped around Arthur’s cock.

“I was thinking- I was thinking about you,” Merlin panted, pressing desperate kisses to Arthur’s chin and the corner of mouth. “And I- I was touching myself.”

Arthur moaned and rolled his hips harder into Merlin’s fist. “Have you done that before?” he asked, rubbing Merlin faster. “Have you come thinking about me?”

“Yes- yes,” Merlin said, his voice high and taut with need - barely a whisper. “I came thinking about your mouth on my cock and your fingers- your fingers-”

Merlin let out a few choked off whimpers and suddenly his breeches were hot and wet beneath Arthur’s hand. Arthur rubbed him through it, his own pleasure momentarily forgotten as he watched the way Merlin’s eyes squeezed shut and the way his teeth sunk into his bottom lips. Distantly, Arthur heard the sound of wood against stone, but he didn’t look up to see which cupboard had shifted.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed when he came back to himself, little more than a tired moan. “You too.”

Arthur grinned and knocked Merlin’s fingers away from where they were wrapped loosely around his cock. He took himself in hand, stroking quickly. After a few seconds, Merlin’s eyes cracked open and he blinked up at Arthur. He clasped Arthur’s face in his hands and strained up to kiss him; to push his tongue into Arthur’s mouth; to suck and nip at his bottom lip.

Arthur came on Merlin’s breeches, his muscles locking as the pleasure rippled through him, making him deaf and blind to everything but his own hand and the smell of Merlin’s skin against his nose. He rolled onto his side when he was finished, his breathing beginning to even out, and Merlin looked down at himself, expression defeated.

“I’m really glad I can magic that out later,” he huffed, chuckling weakly and dropping his head back against the blankets.

Arthur grinned. “It’s not one of Will’s duties?” he said, placing a hand on Merlin’s arm - he didn’t want to stop touching.

Merlin laughed properly then. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d never hear the end of it.”

“I supposes he’s got his own washing to do,” Arthur muttered.

Merlin wrinkled his nose. “Don’t say that,” he grumbled, rolling towards Arthur and burying his face in his chest.

Arthur played with Merlin’s hair, running his fingers lightly through the strands and patting it down again. “Sorry,” he said, not meaning it at all. “How can I ever make it up to you?”

Merlin shoved the heel of his hand into Arthur’s ribs and made an irritated sound. “Shut up,” he said, his voice muffled in Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur did.

****

It was only later - much later, once Merlin had decided that he had spent long enough pinning Arthur to the bed and got up to find some clean breeches - that the two of them stumbled out of Merlin’s chambers, righted themselves, and marched regally down to the stables, not once pushing or shoving or tugging at each other. They took two horses and rode alone to the forest just beyond the castle walls, stopping at Arthur’s favourite clearing a little way off the path.

It was encircled by trees; their branches stretching into the centre of the clearing and offering some shade from the bright summer sun. There were a few bushes and shrubs dotted around, but most of the tree roots were obscured by bluebells and patches of colourful wildflowers. This was one of Arthur’s favourite places because it was so quiet; undisturbed but for the occasional rabbit scuttling through the undergrowth and nibbling at weeds. He had spent hours here every summer since he was a boy, if not playing alone then chasing other boys or entertaining pretty young ladies while their fathers met with the king. He couldn’t help glancing over at Merlin as they dismounted, trying to gage his reaction.

Merlin was smiling as he pulled their large blanket from the back of his horse and settled it atop the long grass. Arthur carried the two baskets of food over, packed to bursting by George. There was a passing moment, as Arthur heaved the baskets from his horse, that Merlin raised his hand. He stopped, his fingers curling back into his palm, and some of the joy left his face. Arthur realised with a start that Merlin had been seconds away from doing magic; from muttering a spell and helping Arthur with his burdens. The thought made something small and uncomfortable twist in Arthur’s gut and he was exceedingly grateful that Merlin had thought better of it.

Back in the castle, in the heat of the moment, Arthur had not much considered what the shifting of Merlin’s furniture really meant; he had been too preoccupied to dwell on the power surging through the person beneath him on the bed. Like this, alone in the forest, it was different. Arthur knew that Merlin was a sorcerer - more than just a sorcerer; he was a dragonlord, a prince of the Sidhe. Merlin’s spells had lit an entire hall when he had first arrived in Camelot but, after that, the person Arthur had grown to know and want had kept his magic to a minimum. Just as it had been with Morgana’s power, Arthur needed a little more time before he could feel at ease with Merlin’s sorcery.

“Is just here alright?” Merlin asked, feigning a cheerfulness that Arthur could tell he didn’t feel.

Arthur cleared his throat and nodded, then set the baskets down beside Merlin.

They unpacked some of the food and ate in silence for a while. George had given them far more than they would ever be able to eat; loaves of fresh bread which had seeds and summer berries worked into the dough, thick blocks of cheese wrapped in white squares of linen, bowls of grapes and dishes of tart kept cool at the bottom of the basket. Arthur pulled each item out with increasing delight and alarm until Merlin was holding his stomach and laughing at the shocked expression on Arthur’s face.

“That servant of yours is unbelievable,” he said, grinning. Arthur was so relieved that the awkward tension between them had dissipated that he just nodded and laughed along.

“Where did you find him?” Merlin asked.

“Oh, he was part of my father’s household but he was assigned to me when I came of age,” Arthur said, shrugging. “He’s very efficient. He keeps me on my toes. He, umm, he has a special talent for arranging things exactly how I like them.”

Merlin was looking at Arthur sceptically, his slice of tart forgotten. “Yes, there’s that, and he is spine-chillingly subservient to boot,” he remarked, his tilted chin spelling out a playful challenge.

Arthur took a deep breath. “Spine-chilling is probably a bit harsh,” he said, giving Merlin a disparaging look. “He means well.”

“I’m sure he does,” Merlin agreed. Arthur chose to ignore the sarcasm in his tone.

Perhaps George had rushed into the stables with their food and strapped the baskets to Arthur’s horse while blathering a seemingly-unending stream of _my lords_ , then bowed out with such self-conscious enthusiasm that he had knocked over a wheelbarrow and bruised his shoulder on the doorframe... But that was no reason to tease him. Not everyone coveted a servant as inadequate as William.

A bird whistled a joyful tune in the branches above them and one of the bushes rustled, revealing a squirrel foraging in the undergrowth. Arthur watched in silence, suddenly longing for the May Hunt, which half of the Court would be attending later in the month. He missed being outside of Camelot sometimes.

“How did your father ever survive without him?” Merlin asked, snapping Arthur out of his daze.

He smiled and took a swig of the elderberry wine George had somehow recovered from the festival. Merlin reached for the wineskin as Arthur explained, “He was never one of my father's favourites. There were rumours that his younger sister had run away to live with the Druids so he wasn’t an ideal person to serve the king. The problem was that there was nothing wrong with his work. Being assigned to me was a way of lowering his rank but making it look like bestowing an honour.”

Merlin dipped his head and set down the wineskin. “Did his sister return?” he said, his tone light. “Once you became king?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Arthur said with a sigh, shaking his head. “Morgana and Mordred have done a lot of work with the Druids but we’re still not close allies. We’re on peaceful terms, not good terms. I think perhaps they fear there’s more of my father in me than there first appears to be.”

A warm flush tickled at the back of Arthur’s neck but he ignored it. He looked down at the food between them - less than half of it had been eaten and they had another basket yet to be opened. There was a chance they could be here until morning.

Movement made Arthur glance up. Merlin had set aside his food and shifted onto his hands and knees. He crawled forwards a step or two until his face was inches from Arthur’s, leant in, and kissed him. He tasted like wine and smelt faintly of sweat and sweetness. Arthur kissed Merlin back, reaching up to softly cup his jaw and pull him a little closer.

When they broke apart, Merlin’s lips held the ghost of a smile. He surveyed Arthur for a moment, then murmured, “Can I ask you something?”

Arthur nodded, feeling dazed, and Merlin sank back onto his knees, his expression focused.

“When your father banned magic,” he began, slow and uncertain. Arthur tensed. “Do you know-”

“-Arthur? Arthur!”

A shout broke through the quiet woodland around them, stopping Merlin mid-question. Arthur frowned and called out in response. Within moments, in a flurry of hooves and billowing red, Mordred appeared atop a horse at the edge of the clearing. He pulled up on his reins and looked frantically between the two of them, hardly seeming to comprehend the scene before him.

“Sire,” he panted, his eyes finally focusing on Arthur. “You’re needed. Urgently.”

“Right now?” Arthur demanded, his stomach sinking as Merlin edged away from him to the other side of the blanket. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, sire, I’m sorry.”

Arthur sighed and got reluctantly to his feet. He didn’t really want to know the end of Merlin’s question but he was loathe to be dragged back to the castle so soon. Merlin stood up as well, but, instead of heading for his horse as Arthur did, he hung back, looking uneasy. Mordred glanced between the two of them, then waved his hand and their picnic packed itself away.

“There’s no time, my lords,” he said, already turning his horse and trotting back towards the path.

“It’s probably Gwaine and those stocks again,” Arthur muttered as Merlin mounted and they urged their horses to follow Mordred’s. “Or something equally frivolous.”


	6. Chapter 6

The scene that greeted Arthur when he burst into the royal council chamber swiftly awakened him to the true seriousness of the situation. There were a number of peasants grouped in the centre of the hall, families, he guessed by the range of ages and the way they were clinging to each other. Morgana was standing beside the throne, white-faced and tight-lipped. There were two guards, one on either side of the peasants, clearly off-duty from their lack of surcoats and the way each was gripping his coif in his fist.

Arthur observed all this without breaking his stride. He gave the peasants a wide birth as he made for the throne, taking his crown from a frightened page boy before settling in his seat and surveying the hall more closely. Merlin, who had been hot on Arthur’s heels for the entire walk through the castle, hovered uncertainly at his side. Arthur ignored him, focusing all of his attention on one of the guards.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. The man stepped forwards, not breaking eye contact with Arthur.

“Last night, there was an awful crime committed against these three families, sire,” he said. “While the city was gathered around the Calan Mai bonfire, thieves stole into these people’s homes and took all of their food, clothing, furniture - everything.”

One of the women let out a muffled sob. Arthur narrowed his eyes and leant forward in his seat. “If this happened last night, as you say, then why was it not reported earlier?”

“It is custom among many of the lower townsfolk to stay with friends and relatives for Nos Galan Mai, sire,” the guard explained, not faltering for one moment. “All relations gather in one house, leaving their own empty. The families returned to their own homes little more than an hour ago.”

“I see,” Arthur nodded and settled back against the throne. He looked over the families once more - three couples, all dirty and distraught, most close to reaching their thirtieth year. The children were all ages, although the majority seemed to be twelve or thirteen.

“Why is this matter being brought before me?” Arthur asked, frowning at the guard. “Doesn't the castle watch usually deal with thefts like this?”

“Sire,” the guard said, his expression pained. “One of these families had a fifteen year old son who was murdered by the thieves.”

There was another sob from one of the mothers. She buried her face in her husband’s collar but her rattling breaths could still be heard around the hall. Arthur’s fingers tightened on the arms of his throne and he swallowed.

“Explain,” he commanded stiffly.

The guard glanced back at the sobbing woman, then towards Arthur again. He drew a deep breath. “The boy hung back after the festival, sire,” he said. “His family did not see him again but they assumed he was with a girl from the kitchens - a sweet little thing who they knew he admired. It was only when they returned to their home this afternoon that they found him.”

“How was he killed?” Arthur asked, keeping his gaze averted from the boy’s family.

“It’s unclear, sire, but we suspect magic,” the guard replied. Arthur didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to Morgana as he said this. “There was not a mark on the boy’s body - no cuts, no bruises, but he had been cold for hours before he was discovered.”

Arthur’s stomach was twisting itself into sickening knots. “You think this was a magical crime?” he said, barely managing to keep his voice level.

“Yes, sire. There is no other way for so much to be taken without an alarm being raised at the castle gate, and there is no other explanation for the state of the boy. He must have stumbled upon the thieves as they emptied his home.”

Several long, tense seconds of silence followed this statement. Nobody moved, nobody made a sound besides the weeping mother and her husband as he whispered words of comfort into her hair.

Arthur turned to Morgana on his left. “My lady,” he said, before addressing Merlin on his right. “My lord, I ask that you leave us. I ask that all who are not these two guards, the families involved, or those on duty at the doors to leave.”

Arthur directed this order at the rest of assembly and watched as servants, chamberlains and councillors began to file out of the room. He caught Leon’s eye and motioned for him to stay, but carefully avoided eye contact with Morgana as she swept past him towards the doors, and with Merlin as he slowly followed her.

Even after that, it took well over an hour to coax any of the peasants into addressing Arthur directly. They were shocked and frightened, unsure of how to behave and unable to think clearly. Over his time as king, Arthur had dealt with many terrified and overwhelmed subjects, and he knew how best to speak to them. He kept his voice low and gentle, his questions slow and simple. He even slipped out of his throne and called for a council table and chairs to be carried in so that his guests could sit at his level while they spoke.

Eventually, they had the whole story laid out in detail. It matched closely with the guard’s initial report. He and his companion had been passing through the lower towns at the end of their shift when they had heard the screams and shouts of the young boy’s mother. From there, they had done an admirable job of collecting the facts of each family’s case before leading them straight to the castle.

It took questioning by a very calm, reassuring Leon to discover how the thefts had taken place. The families were not connected by acquaintance and they lived in separate areas of the town, but it soon came to light that all three fathers had bought similar carved figures as gifts for their wives from an unfamiliar stall in the lower market. The figures had been wooden, painted with bright pinks and golds, and carved into the shape of a beautiful woman.

“These figures must have been used to target your homes,” Arthur concluded, staring intently at each husband in turn. “If they were spelled then they may have acted as beacons, or even something more - I have seen enchanted wooden toys come to life and carry out a child’s bidding. That kind of magic is not as complex as one might assume.”

Once they had told Arthur everything they could, the families were escorted from the council chamber and offered rooms in the castle until the perpetrators were caught. Arthur sent for Elyan, the knight who had often proved himself most skilled at gaining the trust and respect of common folk, and sent him with a small band of guards to ensure that no other homes in Camelot were playing host to the strange figures.

Before sunset, Gwaine rode out of the castle with a troop of her young knights. She took one of Morgana’s trained sorcerers with her as well, and swore to return with the thieves within a week. Arthur concluded discussions with Leon and the heads of the castle guard just as darkness was creeping in through the windows. He headed back to his rooms, confident that those who had done this would be brought to justice.

One of the difficulties of legalising magic in Camelot had been regulating the trials and consequences of magic-related crimes. The punishment for theft had always been reliant on the significance of that which was stolen, but murder had only ever begged one penalty - death. Executions were a rare phenomenon in Arthur’s Camelot and he was dreading the trial of the thieves; passing judgement on others was a task for which he felt less and less worthy as time went by.

****

Arthur was just finishing supper in his chambers when Merlin poked his head around the door.

“May I come in?” he asked, smirking in a way that told Arthur he would be coming in regardless of the answer.

“Of course,” Arthur said, motioning to the seat opposite him. “Help yourself to some food if you like.”

“I ate with Morgana,” Merlin told him, closing the door and sliding the latch across. He walked over to the table and stood beside the empty chair, still smiling. “She had some interesting stories about you that she couldn’t wait to share.”

“Oh brilliant,” Arthur huffed. “Was it the one about the stable boy?”

“Yeah, and the one where you were nine and completely in love with one of your maids.”

“Shut up,” Arthur said, too tired to rebuke Merlin any further. “She’s a witch, my sister.”

Merlin chuckled. “I sense you mean that in more ways than one.”

Arthur grinned. “Definitely,” he got up and stretched, feeling warm and full, and paced around the table until he was face to face with Merlin. “Now what can I do for you?”

Merlin reached out, still a little hesitant, and slid his fingers into Arthur’s hair. Arthur let himself be pulled forwards into a soft kiss. Pushing the thieves, the frightened peasant children and their sobbing mothers from his mind, he sunk into the hot, wet touch of Merlin’s tongue against his own.

“I thought you might want some company,” Merlin said when they pulled apart, his eyes glinting.

“Hmm,” Arthur hummed, faux-thoughtful. “I suppose a little company wouldn’t be too awful.”

Merlin laughed and kissed him again, then ambled over to the bed and sat down on its edge, tugging off his boots. Arthur watched him, smiling at the way the hazy candlelight curved across Merlin’s cheekbones. Then Merlin glanced up at him with an expectant look and Arthur found himself crossing the room in four paces to take up his own place on the bed.

"Why didn't you want us to stay?" Merlin asked a while later. They were lying side by side on Arthur's soft summer blankets, staring up at the ceiling with their shoulders pressed together and their fingers entwined. Merlin's tone was nervous and curious, and Arthur took pity on him.

"You've only ever dealt with high born nobles in Avalon, haven't you?" he said, not needing to hear Merlin's answer but waiting for it all the same.

"Yes."

"And you haven't dealt mothers who've just lost their sons either, I'll wager." Merlin was silent, so Arthur continued, "Those people were of low birth, they probably hadn’t ever set foot in the castle before - they'd definitely never spoken to me directly. Facing their king was difficult enough for them, they didn't need an audience of nobles as well."

Arthur didn't explain why he had waited until the guard mentioned magic before commanding that the council chamber was cleared. Morgana had always been eager to involve herself in all aspects of life for Camelot's magical folk but trials at the very start of Arthur's reign had proven that she could not pass judgement on her kin. She would always turn pale and cold and search for excuses or justifications. Once or twice, she had offered up one of her sorcerers in her place, but they had blindly defended the culprits through a misplaced sense of loyalty just the same as she had.

As for Merlin - Arthur could hardly bear to discuss crimes of sorcery with just Sir Leon present, let alone with a prince of Avalon watching over his shoulder. What had happened in Caerllion was still too sore a wound for Arthur to risk opening it again. He didn't need to give Merlin more reasons to doubt him.

The feeling of Merlin pulling his fingers from Arthur's grip surprised him. He reached out for them again but Merlin had drawn his hand away, flattening it against his own stomach instead. Arthur turned and looked at Merlin, studying the indent his dark head was making in the pillow; the slight downturn at the corner of his mouth.

"We do see bereaved mothers," Merlin said, his voice harsh and solemn. He didn't take his eyes off the ceiling. "Do you think that husbands and sons are the only ones who grieve when a woman dies in childbirth?"

Arthur swallowed, unable to look away from Merlin, unable to say a word, understanding dawning on him with a sudden, violent clarity. All the years that he had found comfort knowing that his mother was safe in Avalon, he had never once considered, never once _believed,_ that she might have been missing him, too; yearning to see his face, to hear his voice, to feel him in her arms, just how he had always dreamt of feeling her arms around him.

"Did you-" Arthur began, desperate to know if Merlin had seen his mother - if he had held her while she cried for her son like his maids had held him - but he stopped himself. He held back. Merlin had not been born when Arthur's mother had died. Any grief she had felt at her own passing would have been long crushed, long controlled, by the time twelve-year-old Merlin found his way to the court of the Afterkingdom.

"I- I'm sorry," Arthur tried instead. "That was thoughtless of me. I apologise."

Merlin bit his lip and nodded before finally turning to face Arthur. He smiled at him, small and sad, then moved closer so that their noses were almost brushing.

"It's alright," Merlin murmured and Arthur felt the warmth of Merlin's palm against his ribs. "I know what you meant but just- just think before you speak sometimes, yeah? People may not die where I come from, but they do leave everything and everyone that they love behind. Some might say that's worse."

Arthur kissed Merlin then, clean and pure and honest, pressing all of his burning respect and admiration and desire into the touch of his fingers on Merlin's cheek. They were both smiling when it was over, warm and content in each other's embrace, and it took Arthur several minutes to muster up the energy to get to his feet and fetch a shift for Merlin to sleep in.

****

The next morning, Arthur woke early to warm fingers tickling along his navel and a hot mouth beneath his ear. He gasped and arched into the touch, his throat too dry from sleep for him to groan. There was a hum of pleasure beside him and Arthur opened his eyes. He looked down to see Merlin’s bare shoulder and back as he moved over Arthur’s body, his hand slipping away from Arthur’s stomach and settling around his cock, stroking, slow and lazy.

Arthur turned his head, kissed Merlin’s ear and nudged him with his nose until their lips met. Arthur moaned, broken and thirsty, but enough to let Merlin know how imperative it was that he did not stop moving his hand. Merlin grinned against Arthur’s lips and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, over and over as his hand sped up, stripping Arthur’s cock and making him writhe against the mattress.

Arthur came before he was ready, his mouth open in a wordless shout. Merlin stroked him through it, kissing along his jaw and mouthing at his earlobe - the sensation too much; making Arthur buck and try to wriggle away, mindlessly sensitive.

It was only when Arthur had come back to himself enough for his breathing to even out that he felt Merlin’s cock rub against his thigh. He blinked, the need for reciprocation catching up with his addled brain, and rolled onto his side. He took Merlin's mouth with a hard, heated kiss. Merlin’s taut muscles melted into the bed, pliant, and he let out a string of needy, delighted noises as Arthur pressed him onto his back and settled over him.

“Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin panted, running his hands over Arthur’s shoulders, stopping when his fingers met at Arthur’s nape. Arthur kissed him again, trailing along his neck to his collarbone, scooting down the bed and nuzzling his way down Merlin’s body.

The thin shift Arthur had given Merlin before they fell asleep had been cast onto the stone floor alongside his breeches at some point in the night. As he mouthed at the trickle of hair beneath Merlin’s bellybutton, Arthur thanked the stars for the uncomfortable warmth that made sleeping clothed on summer nights impossible in his chambers. Merlin was making heavy, breathy sounds and gripping a pillow at the head of the bed, encouraging Arthur to move lower with a few smooth rolls of his hips.

When Arthur finally drew level with Merlin’s cock, he kissed it - kissed the base, kissed up the shaft, kissed the tip and then wrapped his lips around it and slid down. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t tease, he didn’t choke; he just swallowed around Merlin and basked in the deep, guttural moans that were echoing around his chambers. When Merlin started jerking upwards, pressing his cock deeper, Arthur put his hands on Merlin’s hips and held him still, taking him at his own pace.

Merlin kept panting Arthur’s name, the syllables crashing into each other and losing their definition as Arthur sucked harder. It wasn’t long before Merlin's fists tightened on the pillow and he came into Arthur’s mouth, brow furrowed and cheeks flushed. Arthur swallowed, staring up Merlin’s body in awe - not quite believing that they were finally doing this, that he finally had Merlin, prince of Avalon, naked and desperate in his bed.

It was only when Merlin whined and nudged Arthur’s shoulder, over-sensitive, that Arthur pulled off his cock and wiped his mouth, grinning. Merlin smiled back at him, his hair in disarray, and collapsed onto the mattress. Arthur crawled up Merlin’s body, kissed his nose, and then flopped down beside him, breathless and happy.

He felt like he had seen two sides of Merlin - there was this side, the eager, beautiful country boy who wanted nothing more than to kiss Arthur and be kissed by him, to have sex and lie naked in bed until the sun rose to mid-afternoon. And then there was the other side; the prince who cared deeply for a world which was no longer his, who was in awe of farmers and children and April showers; the visitor from Avalon who had seen through Arthur’s charade as easily as if his whole kingship were a sheet of glass, and he a naked child cowering behind it.

What was frightening was that Arthur didn’t know which side he preferred.

****

The rest of the week passed in a haze of fresh summer days and wearisome duties. Elyan managed to collect another ten carved figures from houses throughout Camelot, a number which grew steadily after Arthur made a proclamation explaining that they were dangerous, enchanted artefacts. It seemed that the thieves had been planning to tackle several houses at a time over a period of a few weeks. Arthur added these further conspiracies onto their already lengthy list of crimes.

There was no chance for a repeat of Arthur and Merlin’s quiet picnic in the forest and Merlin made no attempt to continue questioning Arthur about his father’s ban on magic. They dined together most afternoons but Merlin didn’t sleep in Arthur’s chambers again. After the first time, he had traipsed through the castle at mid-morning, wearing the same rumpled clothes he had worn the day before. Maids had giggled, nobles had stared, and Merlin was not keen to repeat the experience.

Arthur didn’t mind. Being kissed behind a tapestry was just as enjoyable as against a bedpost, and Merlin was still happy to kneel for Arthur beside the council table in an empty hall instead of on the bed in his chambers. There was no reason for them to keep the change in their relationship a secret from the Court, but Arthur understood that a little discretion was advisable - he couldn’t maintain his hard-earned air of superiority and grace if he let Merlin fuck him over the throne at a feast or toy with his crown while Arthur sucked his dick. No, neither of those things were going to happen. Not with anyone else present, anyway.

Gwaine’s return to Camelot after five days caused enough of a stir without it being discovered that the king was partial to licking every inch of a fairy prince’s body he could get his tongue on. She sped through the gates and straight up to the keep on horseback, calling out for Arthur to be informed of her arrival. Within half an hour, the two of them were sitting in the royal council chamber with Leon, Elyan, Morgana and most of the royal council. Merlin was away at the orphanage with Gwen - a circumstance for which Arthur was exceedingly grateful when he heard Gwaine’s first words.

“They’re dead,” she said. She was no longer breathless but her hair was wild from riding and her face was streaked with dirt and sweat. “The thieves. We had no choice. They were all sorcerers, all of them, and their leader commanded them to attack as soon as he saw us. Our boy was good, but there were too many. It’s a miracle I only lost two men.”

Arthur put his head in his hands to muffle a curse. If the thieves were following one leader, he would have been the one tried for murder; none of the others would have lost their lives to the executioner’s block.

“They were powerful?” Morgana asked, her voice shaky and quiet. Arthur looked over at her. She was deathly pale.

“Yes, my lady,” Gwaine said, dipping her head in a quick bow. She swept her knotted hair out of her face when she looked up, tensing at the memory. “They were untrained but they managed to do some damage to my knights before we got close enough to use swords instead of just spells.”

“Were there no survivors?” Arthur demanded, clenching his fists and trying to ignore the way his muscles were tightening. “None?”

Gwaine looked at him for a moment, deadly serious. “One, sire,” she replied, shifting in her seat. The twitch of her fingers against the table betrayed the adrenaline still rushing through her body. “We captured the leader. The men are escorting him to Camelot as we speak - I rode ahead to give my initial report before they arrived. I would advise that you begin the trial at once.”

“Are you not confident in our ability to hold him in the cells?”

“Not this one,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s something different about him.”

There was indeed something disturbing about Ryn, which was the name the thief gave when he was brought before Arthur just over an hour later. His hair was a dark and flecked with grey, and his face was thin, lined with age. He stood proudly before the throne, his chin raised in challenge, his stance wide and sure.

“I do not fear you,” he said once Arthur had read out his crimes. His voice was deep with a smooth, clean sound that was almost musical. At once, Arthur felt the persuasive power which must have gripped the sorcerers Ryn commanded.

“Thankfully, I do not need you to fear me,” Arthur said, keeping his tone brusque and unaffected. “I need you to present your defence so that your fate can be decided.”

Ryn smirked, his grey eyes full of malice. “I used my talents to improve my living situation,” he declared. “Is that not what you wish for all your subjects?”

“Careful, Ryn,” Arthur warned, tilting his head and surveying the man in front of him. “The death of a young boy is not a matter to be treated lightly.”

“But my death is?” Ryn retorted, not missing a beat. He quirked an eyebrow when Arthur leant forwards in his throne.

“That remains to be seen,” Arthur said.

The rest of the trial was not much easier. Ryn avoided Arthur’s questions, played twisted games with his words in an attempt to poke holes in the evidence against him, but, when Morgana brought out a polished obsidian orb and presented it to Ryn, Arthur knew that justice would prevail. The orb was often used in serious trials; it was enchanted to heat up to the point of scalding if the one holding it told a lie.

At first, when Arthur asked Ryn whether his men had been responsible for the thefts in the lower town and the death of the peasant boy, he shook his head, grinning, but the malevolence in his expression turned to shock, then pain, and he flung the orb to the ground. When Ryn held up his hands, his palms were bright red and dotted with blisters. The orb did not smash against the flagstone floor, it just landed with a dull thud and rolled towards the foot of the throne.

Arthur barely managed to keep his voice calm as he spoke his next words. “Ryn, I find you guilty of theft, murder and the misuse of magic. You have coerced young sorcerers to break the law and then sent them to their deaths. You have taken everything from three families who had done no harm you. You have taken the life of a promising young boy and ensured a grief that will never fade for his parents and siblings.”

A councillor stepped forward to announce Ryn’s sentence but Arthur was no longer listening. He stood up and marched from the hall, seething with anger. This man had not only broken Camelot’s laws and ruined the lives of innocent people, but he had taken relish in being accused. He had smiled about his crimes and claimed that they were justified. It was sorcerers such as him who had driven Arthur’s father to ban magic in the first place; sorcerers who abused their power and took what wasn’t theirs.

Arthur was breathing heavily by the time he came to a halt in an empty corridor. Ryn would be sentenced to death, that much was clear, but there would always be more men like him. There would always be those who sought to use magic and trickery to cause disruption and pain.

Morgana was still in the hall, no doubt frozen where she stood, torn between her loyalty to sorcerers and her instinctive regard for fairness and justice. Arthur needed to see someone, to hold them and calm the rage he felt at his own inability to change the past; his inability to go back to Nos Galan Mai and save that young boy from his dreadful fate.

Before he quite knew what he was doing, Arthur’s feet were carrying him to Merlin’s chambers. The visit to the orphanage would have been over hours ago and there was no sign of supper yet in sight. Merlin would be there, hopefully alone; he would listen to Arthur and reason with him; and, if all else failed, he would soothe Arthur’s fury with warm touches and soft kisses.

At Merlin’s door, Arthur waited only a moment before pushing inside. He could not hear any voices so he assumed that Merlin was alone and they would not be interrupted. The sun had slid low in the sky while Arthur had been busy in the council chambers and it bathed the room in a glorious golden light as he stepped inside. There was a blissful quiet in this part of the castle, broken only by the occasional birdsong and the sound of Merlin’s hushed whispering. It cut off abruptly as Arthur took a few steps forwards and looked around.

Merlin was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his hands lying palm-up in his lap. His eyes were wide and a little frightened as his head snapped around to take in the sight of Arthur standing in the doorway. The air surrounding Merlin held a scattering of butterflies, all with fluttering bright blue wings. One by one they spiralled upwards, alighting on the canopy of Merlin’s bed and the rough stone ceiling.

Arthur drew in a ragged breath but he didn’t say a word. The butterflies were magic; a spell Merlin had been casting before Arthur burst into his chambers. Arthur blinked, a little dazed as the fact that Merlin was magical, a _sorcerer,_ dawned on him all anew and he realised that he couldn’t tell Merlin about the rage Ryn had awoken in him; he couldn’t express his frustration at the irreversibility of evil deeds. If he tried, Merlin would know; Merlin would see through Arthur’s words and know that it was the magic Ryn had used to commit his crimes which truly made Arthur hate him.

Merlin was a sorcerer, too. He would despise Arthur for harbouring such feelings, just as Arthur would hate any man who dared to preach that the knights of Camelot were corrupt or that Morgana was selfish or cruel.

Without saying a word, Arthur turned on his heel and swept from Merlin’s chambers. He could hear Merlin calling his name the whole way down the corridor but he didn’t turn back; he couldn’t risk staying in that room for a moment longer.

****

Arthur could safely say that he had never seen the dragon surprised. He had seen it angry, bored, malignant, frustrated but never surprised; never shocked. That is, not until he stormed through the archway to its foul, dark cave and ripped a flaming torch from its place on the wall, brandishing it like a frightened child might wield a stick at bullies.

“What do I do?” he shouted as the creature lifted its head and blinked shining yellow at him. “You said Merlin would change things, you said he would help me, but how? What could anyone do to solve this?”

The dragon bared its teeth in something close to a grin and tilted its head, considering. “Is this the great King Arthur asking me for advice?” it crowed with malicious delight. “Do you not remember what I said, little king? There is no hope for you.”

“That’s not all you said,” Arthur hissed, only just holding back his curses. “You said that Merlin might make a difference. You knew he was a dragonlord and you know it now, do you have so little faith in your kind?”

“How dare you,” the dragon spat, ruffling its wings and drawing itself up to its full height. Arthur did not flinch away despite how small he felt. “Emrys is the last dragonlord. He is all that is left of my blood and we dragons, unlike the humans who subdued and slaughtered us, always honour our kin.”

“Well then prove it,” Arthur demanded. “Prove your loyalty to Merlin. We’ve grown close and he cares for me now, but I know that I’m failing him and I know that something in me must change. Tell me how so that I can stop hurting him. Tell me how and you’ll be protecting him just as much as you’re saving me.”

The dragon settled back on its rock, its eyes glinting. “Bring him to me,” it said. “I wish to speak with the last of my kind.”

Arthur shook his head. “No, not unless you tell me-”

“Listen to him, little king,” the dragon interrupted, its tone poisonous. “Listen to what he has to say and you might just find yourself saved without my help. You two were destined to spend your lives together before he was sent to live in Avalon. Your fates may have altered slightly over time but he has always been meant for you. Listen to him.”

These last few words were spoken in a harsh whisper. Arthur returned the torch to its place and marched off towards the upper levels without bidding the dragon farewell. He knew what it meant by instructing him to listen - he had to let Merlin speak to him about the Purge, let him ask questions like the one he had begun when they were picnicking in the forest. Arthur had to speak plainly and honestly and let Merlin do the same in return. It was going to be anything but easy.

****

At first, Arthur was reluctant to speak to Merlin at all - he didn’t feel ready to be confronted about his behaviour but he didn’t want to act as though nothing was wrong, either. He took to dining alone in his chambers and leading extra training sessions with Gwaine and the new recruits. The few times that Arthur caught Merlin’s eye across a council meeting or along a corridor, Merlin offered him a weak smile which Arthur felt too guilty to return.

After rejecting Morgana’s third breakfast invitation in a row, Arthur should hardly have been surprised to have his quiet studying in the library interrupted by loud, angry steps, a cloud of billowing fabric, and his very stormy-faced sister.

“What’s gotten into you?” she demanded, tossing the scrawled reply he had sent with one of the maids on top of the sixteen-year-old harvest report he was reading. “You’re even worse than you were before Calan Mai. Have I done something wrong?”

Arthur glanced guiltily over at Geoffrey, who looked as though he wanted nothing more than to order them out of his sight and was only resisting because, together, they happened to make up the highest authority in the realm.

“No, Morgana, you are a delight, as always,” Arthur sighed, dropping his quill back into its pot of ink and leaning back in his chair.

“Don’t give me that,” she barked. “Humour doesn’t suit you.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Are you really going to speak to your king like that?”

Morgana rolled her eyes and grabbed his wrist, pulling him to his feet and dragging him out of the library. Arthur told her to let go more than once but she ignored him, only withdrawing her claws when they had reached her chambers. Celia was there, pottering about beside Morgana’s bed, rearranging her blankets and fussing with the pillows. Morgana nodded at her as they entered, then glanced at the door behind Arthur and made it swing shut with magic.

“Now,” Morgana said, a little calmer. “Please.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably and stared at the floor. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling to Morgana. He loved her more deeply than anyone in Camelot - perhaps more deeply than Camelot itself - and he didn’t want to hurt her. If he told her the truth, that part of him still couldn’t trust or accept magic, then he might lose her forever. Her magic wasn’t what frightened him; it never had been. He trusted her with his life.

“Don’t worry,” he managed at last. “It’s not you. I’m just trying to sort a few things out in my head.”

Morgana’s expression softened into one of sympathetic concern. “Arthur,” she muttered, placing a hand on his arm. “Is it the succession again?”

Arthur smiled despite himself. “No,” he said. He reached out and wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. “It’s old news, really.”

Morgana turned her face into Arthur’s neck and exhaled against his skin. He could feel her hands rubbing up and down against his waist - it was familiar and comforting.

“Is there anything I can do?” she said with a sigh and, in that moment, Arthur knew that she would grant him anything he asked of her. It made his chest ache with remorse, being so aware of how completely he was failing her.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “But I promise I’ll explain once I’ve fixed it.”

Morgana pulled back and surveyed him. When he couldn’t hold her gaze, she huffed and frowned. “Look at you,” she said, her tone accusatory. “There’s definitely something wrong and I’m not giving up that easily - not this time.”

Arthur glanced over at Celia, who was dusting the mantelpiece above the fire. “Can’t we have some privacy?” he said to Morgana, feeling trapped and irritated.

After looking him over one more time, Morgana turned and said, her voice as sweet as honey, “Celia, darling, you couldn’t run along and see if the seamstresses are done with my blue dress, could you?”

Celia smiled at Morgana and brushed her curly hair off her face. Then she set down the cloth she had been using to dust and hurried out of the chambers, her pink skirts swaying as she moved. Arthur watched her go before turning back to Morgana, whose expression was still stern.

“Whatever you need, Arthur, I’m here,” she said, folding her arms. “But I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me. I tried before, I thought it was just that you felt guilty about wanting Merlin - one of your weird, chivalrous things, I don’t know,” Arthur did his best not to react to that. “But now you’ve clearly had Merlin and you’re still behaving like a reclusive idiot.”

“Hey!” Arthur protested. It was his duty to object to her insulting use of ‘clearly’, if nothing else.

Morgana’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “You’re not leaving until you tell me,” she finished. There was no room for argument.

Arthur rubbed his hand over his eyes, praying for strength. “Alright,” he said. “But I wanted to deal with this on my own. I didn’t want to tell you - not ever.”

“I’m fairly certain that isn’t going to make whatever you’ve got to say any better,” Morgana remarked, one eyebrow raised.

“Recently,” Arthur began with absolutely no idea how he was going to explain this. “I’ve noticed that I’m uncomfortable with certain things that I had previously thought were water under the bridge, as they say.”

Morgana’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

Arthur looked at her, at the thin line of her lips and the pale green of her eyes. She was so beautiful. Her dark hair had been left to curl around her shoulders today, pulled away from her face by a silver butterfly pin that Arthur had given her on her eighteenth birthday. There was something about his sister - a kind of fierce intelligence and an eagerness to bicker and argue - that he had never found in any other. That was the side of her Arthur cherished the most, and it was the side that would hate him most passionately for what he was about to say.

“Sorcery,” he said, his shoulders slumping and his voice heavy with defeat. “Not you, but just the general- umm, the general...”

Arthur trailed off as Morgana turned away from him, her face white and cold. His heart filled with dread when she stopped at the door, unlatching it. She wrenched it open and held it that way, revealing the empty corridor beyond. Morgana’s cheeks were pinched but her eyes looked large; on the verge of tears.

“Morgana,” Arthur said, stepping towards her, his hand outstretched.

“Leave,” she told him, her voice firm. When he tried to touch her shoulder she pulled away, looking as though she didn’t know whether she wanted to hit him or cry.

Arthur took a deep breath, his hand dropping uselessly to his side. He gave his sister one last, apologetic look, trying to convey the power of his remorse in nothing more than the flicker of his eyes, then he walked through the open door and flinched as it closed with a bang behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

A few days later, the whole Court was called to assemble in the courtyard, ready to begin the May Hunt. This particular hunting party was never expected to return with much game but it was a summer tradition almost as old as Calan Mai. Dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, knights and honoured sorcerers all gathered together under enormous colourful banners and rode out into the forests around Camelot for two days of hunting and festivities.

There were three large carts of food and almost a hundred servants dotted amongst the gathering of nobles. The party was bid farewell by crowds of cheering townsfolk as they rode through the main market towards the gates of the city. Arthur and Morgana headed the procession. They didn’t say a word to one another and once they were outside the castle walls, Morgana quickly fell back to ride with Gwen and Lancelot. Arthur found himself side by side with Merlin.

The silence between them felt far louder for the chatter that surrounded them as they rode towards the forest. Each time Arthur steeled himself to glance over at Merlin, it was to see Merlin’s bright blue eyes skittering hurriedly away from him to stare at the road ahead. Eventually, Arthur just couldn’t take it any longer.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice low enough that only Merlin would hear. “Merlin, I’m- I’m terribly sorry.”

“I know,” Merlin said. He sounded tired and sad. “But I don’t know what to do with you, Arthur. If you want me to leave you alone, to go back to Avalon, then just say the word and I will.”

Arthur’s heart jumped to his throat. He hadn’t meant to make it seem as though he no longer wanted Merlin, he had just needed time, and a chance to think things over. He had felt as though anything different would be a lie; Arthur didn’t wanted to sleep with someone he wasn’t being honest with.

“No,” he replied with force. “No, Merlin, I don’t want you to go anywhere. I’m sorry for how I behaved the other day, when I came into your chambers and saw you-”

“Saw me doing magic?” Merlin snapped, for once not instantly forgiving. “I’m a sorcerer, Arthur, _more_ than just a sorcerer. You’re going to have to get used to that.”

“I know,” Arthur said; quiet, accepting. “I’m trying. I was hoping that we could talk later or tomorrow - just, soon. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Merlin sighed, shaking his head and giving Arthur an exasperated look. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for a while.”

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly and nodded, then urged his horse into a fast trot, racing Merlin to the edge of the trees.

They didn’t return to the topic until late that night. Once the knights had found the area of the forest traditionally used for the May Hunt, it was a long, arduous process to escort all of the servants with their carts of food and expensive cloth tents through the thick trees. Preparing the camp took another two hours and by the time all of the nobles were content with the arrangement of their tents, evening was creeping over the forest.

The whole court ate on wooden benches around four roaring fires. The food was rich and plentiful, sending many of the older, fatter men into a warm, contented sleep, but Arthur couldn’t stomach much. Morgana had not looked at him for days. He felt so wracked with guilt that he was struggling to do much more than give the bare minimum of orders required - and only that when prompted by a knight.

After the feast, Morgana disappeared with Gwen to look for Celia, who had last been seen sneaking off towards the stream with her stable boy. Lancelot and Mordred left to check on the horses and the rest of the knights took to playing drinking games with the barrels of mead Gwaine had charmed away from the chamberlain responsible for food supplies. Arthur and Merlin were left alone, side by side on their bench, watching the fire burn heartily in its circle of stones.

Arthur brushed his fingers along Merlin’s thigh, cautious of overstepping his bounds too soon after making peace, and rested his hand on Merlin’s knee. Merlin looked up at him and smiled.

“You’re not sick of me then, my lord?” he said, smirking.

“Not at all,” Arthur murmured, tightening his hold on Merlin’s leg. He glanced around them, checking that their audience wasn’t too large, and then leant in to kiss Merlin, dry and chaste.

Merlin kissed back, parting his lips just a little so that Arthur could feel the hint of his tongue. The warmth of the summer night, the heat of the fire, and Merlin’s hot, panting breaths combined to overwhelm Arthur. He pulled back, grinning.

“There was something you tried to ask me,” he said, mustering up what courage he could. “In the forest on May first.”

Merlin rested his hand on Arthur’s where it was gripping his knee. “I wanted you to tell me what you knew about your father’s purge of magic in Camelot. Why do you think he did it?”

Arthur frowned. “Why?” he repeated, straightening up. “Because of my mother. She was attacked by a sorcerer a few days before she gave birth and it weakened her so severely that the strain of bearing me killed her.”

“Really?” Merlin’s voice sounded strange and distant.

“Yes,” Arthur said, a little nonplussed. “My father told me when I was very young. He said to never trust sorcerers; to never let them near me or my family. The grief of losing my mother was one of the few feelings my father did not try to hide from me. It was loss and revenge which drove him to do what he did.”

“I don’t doubt that the queen’s death changed your father forever,” Merlin agreed, nodding. He looked sad and he was worrying his bottom lip, his eyes raking over Arthur’s face. “But the story he told you isn’t what truly happened.”

Arthur withdrew his hand, taken aback. Was Merlin calling his father a liar? Perhaps he could ignore such a thing from Morgana, but no one else. Whatever Uther had done, he was still a good king and a strong leader.

Merlin drew a deep breath and said, “It was the magic that conceived you which killed your mother, not a sorcerer’s attack.”

Arthur blinked, a chill running up his arms and down his spine. It made him feel sick and cold. He swallowed, trying to understand what Merlin was saying, but it was too much. It had to be a lie. A sorcerer had killed his mother - that was the only way to explain his father’s blind hatred of magic. Arthur opened his mouth to argue but Merlin held up his hand.

“Wait,” he said, low and urgent. “Just listen, please.”

Listen. Merlin was echoing the dragon’s advice. Merlin was a prince of the Sidhe and one of the most kind, loving people Arthur had ever met. Why would he lie?

Arthur closed his mouth and nodded, waiting for Merlin to go on.

“Your mother and father struggled to have you,” Merlin said when he seemed sure that Arthur would not interrupt. “They tried for a year to no avail. In desperation, your father asked Albion’s most powerful sorceress to help give him a son. She warned him that the price for your life would be a death but he wanted you enough to take that chance. You were born of magic, Arthur. It reached into your mother’s womb and made you out of nothing. It surrounded you as you grew inside her and it brought you into this world as a babe, replacing her life with yours.”

Arthur drew a shaky breath. “I don’t...” he mumbled, numb with shock and disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin took Arthur’s hand again and squeezed it, looking deep into his eyes with wild pity and sorrow. “I’m sorry but it’s the truth. Your mother was not stolen away by magic, your parents knew the price for your life and they paid what was asked of them.”

Arthur tore his gaze away from Merlin’s face and stared into the fire, trying to blink back tears. “How do you know this?” he asked, desperate to keep his voice even. “You weren’t even born, how would you know?”

Merlin sighed heavily and clasped his other hand over Arthur’s knuckles. “Because I live in Avalon,” he said. “The Sidhe see all the deeds of the living. They showed me how you came to be when I joined them.”

“Why?” Arthur demanded, a few shreds of anger emerging through his hurt. “Why would they show _you_ that?”

“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, close to Arthur’s ear. He kissed his cheek softly and said, in little more than a whisper, “They showed me because it’s my destiny to help you overcome this. If my father hadn’t promised me to the Sidhe then I might have found you sooner; lived with you for longer. I was always supposed to be by your side. I could hardly believe it when you called for a meeting with me - it was like the fates had aligned to give us our chance.”

“You were always meant for me,” Arthur said slowly, echoing the dragon’s words. “You were always meant to be here.”

“I was,” Merlin said, a smile working its way into his voice. “And you were meant for me, too.”

Merlin cupped Arthur’s face and kissed him. He started at his cheek, moving up over the dampness beneath his eyes and then dropping to his lips, making it deep and heartfelt. In that moment, Arthur felt as though he wasn’t his own; he felt like he belonged to another - to Merlin. He kissed back, fisting his hand in Merlin’s hair and pulling him closer, wanting to feel safe and owned just for a moment; just for long enough to accept all that he had learnt.

The rumble of conversation from the knights lulled as Arthur and Merlin let go of each other. Arthur looked over, a little dazed, and saw Gwaine watching them with a smile. For once, she didn’t seem amused or poised to crack a joke - her expression was happy and warm. She raised her goblet to them in a wordless toast and several of the other knights did the same before returning to their game.

“Come to my tent tonight,” Arthur muttered, rubbing his thumb across Merlin’s cheek. “Tell Will that he and Mordred can have yours if that’s what it takes to keep him quiet. Just stay with me, please?”

Merlin nodded, smiling, and stood up. He pulled Arthur to his feet as well and nudged him in the direction of his tent. “Go on,” he said, motioning for Arthur to leave. “I won’t be long.”

Arthur hadn’t even managed to change out of his hunting gear by the time Merlin joined him in his tent. It was one of the largest in the camp, matched only by Morgana’s, and its outer layer consisted entirely of thick cloth in deep Pendragon red. Inside there were a number of banners hung like curtains along the walls, each with the golden crest of Camelot embroidered at its centre.

Merlin undressed Arthur silently and pushed him, naked, towards the makeshift bed. Arthur tried to find a comfortable position amongst the soft cushions and blankets but quickly gave up in favour of padding over to Merlin and helping him remove his shirt and breeches. They kissed again, the warmth of their naked bodies making their fringes damp with sweat, then clambered into bed. Arthur dozed with his head resting on Merlin’s chest as Merlin ran idle fingers through his hair.

****

Arthur woke long before Merlin the next morning. The sun rose early in the summer months and his body had been trained to wake with it when outside of Camelot - perhaps there was less urgency to life in Avalon, knowing, after all, that it would go on forever. Arthur lay awake, listening to Merlin’s low breathing and thinking about his mother.

He had only ever seen a few portraits of her; one painting, a tapestry or two. He had been told that he had her fair hair and blue eyes, her warm complexion and love for music, but he knew little else. She was said to have been beautiful, elegant and wise, kind beyond measure and strong in the face of peril, but that was said of all high born ladies who lost their lives before their husbands. It meant little to Arthur - he trusted only his own judgement of character.

The air was fresh with dew and the sounds of the forest when Arthur stepped out of his tent. He left Merlin still sleeping inside, curled up under several blankets. Arthur caught George just he was crossing the camp and sent him away to fetch his own breakfast. There were only a few lords wandering around - the hour still too early for most of the Court. No ladies were to be seen, probably still being laced into their silk gowns by maids with unkempt hair and dark circles beneath their eyes.

Arthur dawdled towards the stream, his mind lost in memories of Uther reading poems about the queen’s beauty at feasts and celebrations. A son’s faith in his father is absolute when he is small; especially when that father is the only parent the boy has. Arthur was no longer fighting back anger - his vehemence had passed with the darkness of the night. Now, he was only tired, his stomach weighed down by resignation and anguish. He believed Merlin. His father had lied.

When he reached the stream, Arthur was surprised to find Guinevere crouching at the water’s edge. She was wearing a loose, white nightgown, her shoulders and breasts covered by one of Lancelot’s dark, worn jackets. Her curly hair was falling around her shoulders, tied with one thin ribbon. She startled at Arthur’s abrupt appearance beside her.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling up at him. She was collecting water in a large clay jug.

“Guinevere,” Arthur dipped his head to acknowledge her. He watched as she held the jug firmly between her hands, drawing it through the water in one smooth motion. “Isn’t there a maid who could do that for you?”

Gwen gave a small laugh. “Plenty, but collecting water was my task as a child and I find it comforting sometimes.”

Arthur nodded, pulled himself up to sit on a large rock, and folded his arms.

“Are you alright, my lord?” Gwen asked, her voice full of concern as she set her jug down beside two others and straightened up. She stepped closer to Arthur, her gaze attentive.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said at once, bristling. Gwen did not look convinced. “I woke with my mother on my mind this morning, that’s all.”

A sad smile flickered across Gwen’s face. “I know how you feel,” she said, her words gentle. “I never knew my mother either. She died bringing me into the world.”

Arthur drew a slow intake of breath but said nothing. Some part of him had always known that Gwen grew up with just her father but he had never thought to ask why that was. It was just something he had accepted without question, like Morgana’s arrival at Court as his sister when she was already eight years old.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur said, his heart aching with how much he truly meant it. “It’s not an easy thing to grow up with.”

“My father made it bearable,” Gwen replied, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. “He spoke about her as if she was still there, right until the end.”

Arthur nodded, looking down at his feet. “It was a rare thing for my father to talk about my mother,” he said. Gwen would have heard the poems and eulogies that were read at Court. “Until the day he died, he was a very private man.”

“Do you still miss him?” Gwen said, the question somehow gentle in the way that she asked it.

“In a way,” Arthur said, surprised by his own honesty. It felt remarkably easy to talk to Gwen. He wished, fleetingly, that he knew her a little better. “There are many things I wish I could ask him - ask both of them.”

Gwen hummed, her empathy clear. “At least both of our father’s were there to see us grow,” she said. “Some children don’t even have that.”

Arthur rubbed his fingers across his lips, trying to keep his next words from spilling out. “I wish I hadn’t killed my mother,” he confessed, his voice wavering. “I wish there had been another way.”

Gwen stepped towards him. When she spoke, her tone was level and earnest, “The key is not to wish that her fate was different but to be grateful for her sacrifice. You, of all people, would make a mother proud, Arthur. I honour mine every day by trying to do good and repair the damage that her loss did to the world, and I’ll wager you do the same. No one can ask any more of us than that.”

Gwen curtseyed then and gathered the jugs of water into her arms. Arthur watched her silently, her words turning over and over in his head, but when she gave him one final nod and made to leave the water’s edge, he reached for her arm, stopping her.

“Gwen,” Arthur breathed, his voice shaking as the flood of regret and sadness spilled out of his heart and began to fill his throat. “I think I used to feel it. The magic. I think- I think when I was young and I saw the men and women executed, it tugged at me. It cut into my soul and made me want to close off; made me distrust them, hate them for hurting me. I didn’t know, I didn’t understand. I thought they were _making_ me feel that way.”

Gwen was frowning in confusion. Arthur let go of her arm and buried his face in his hands. He pushed helplessly at the tears beneath his eyes, trying to force them back into his skin; trying to punish them for daring to fall where another could see. There was the dull, faint sound of pottery against stone and then Gwen’s arms were around Arthur’s shoulders, holding him tightly to her chest. He could feel her chin resting on his head and he heard her making soft, hushing sounds; felt the slight rocking of her body as she soothed him.

They stayed like that for a while, Arthur trying desperately to bite back his tears and swallow the sick, churning sensation in his gut at the memory of something inside him jumping out in fear when a sorcerer was executed. He had forgotten it, hidden it away deep inside where it was safe from recollection or discovery - safe even from the dragon’s piercing words when he claimed to understand Arthur’s hatred.

Somehow, Arthur had managed to quell those instincts. He had stopped the magic that had borne him from trying to save the sorcerers his father murdered. Arthur would never cast a spell, would never weave an enchantment, despite the magic in his blood; he had killed that part of himself when he was still far too young to contemplate its existence at all.

Gwen kissed Arthur’s hair before she went, giving him a long, meaningful look which said he could speak to her again at any time. He thanked her with a smile, however watery and faint, and sat alone for a long time, watching the stream. Eventually, he got to his feet and headed back towards the camp. He found Merlin waiting for him at one of the breakfast benches, his expression taut with obvious worry. It disappeared at once when Arthur called out to him in greeting.

****

It was traditional for the king to lead the hunt on the first day, so after breakfast George strapped Arthur into his hunting gear, gathered his weapons and helped him onto his stallion in the middle of camp. Half of the lords and dukes were waiting atop their own steeds, eager to ride out in search of game. Most of the knights also joined the party, along with a few young ladies who had acquired a taste for riding on their father’s estates.

Morgana had never been fond of hunting, so she stayed in the camp with her sorcerers, entertaining the nobles who were staying behind and supervising the servants as they cleaned their masters’ tents. When Arthur spoke to her, wishing her a pleasant day, she glared at him and said nothing. Merlin was standing at the edge of a group of sorcerers. He gave Arthur an apologetic smile but made no move to join him - it was hardly surprising, hunting was more of a knight’s pastime. Will sat idly by several feet away, chatting to Celia. He waved goodbye to Mordred as the party left. Arthur pretended not to see the sulk on Mordred’s face as he rode.

Without Merlin’s presence to ward them off, Arthur feared that he might find himself chastised by the knights for the entire ride. Gwaine had held her tongue when she saw him kissing Merlin the night before, a kindness which was so out of character it made Arthur uneasy. He expected that now, with no immediate danger of embarrassing Merlin, she would take the opportunity to be as ruthlessly uncouth as possible. In the end, he was pleasantly surprised. She rode alongside him in companionable silence for most of the trip, only speaking up to challenge the other knights to drinking matches or to dispute the hunting prowess of any noble who made a passing suggestion.

The whole day proved to be very good indeed. Arthur had missed being out in the forest with his men, joking and laughing as they rode along forgotten paths. A few of the most enthusiastic young knights formed their own hunting party and returned with several dead rabbit and a few deer, but for once Arthur was content not to catch anything at all. The light summer breeze and the burning sun on the back of his neck went a long way to clearing his mind. He felt like his old, carefree self again for the first time in weeks.

That evening passed much the same as the one before, with everyone gathered around large bonfires, enjoying the abundance of food prepared by the servants. Some of Morgana’s sorcerers wove glowing creatures in the air with their magic - rabbits which hopped around the feet of the ladies and squirrels which hung from branches overhead. One or two of the most powerful sorcerers even conjured up stags that charged around the clearing and wolves which yelped between the trees with curious, musical voices. It was Arthur’s first experience of magic since Merlin had told him the truth about his birth, and it made his skin tingle.

Arthur retired to his tent quite early and was joined by Merlin after a while. They went to bed naked again, holding each other close.

“Do you have to lead the hunt again tomorrow?” Merlin asked when he was flat on his back, staring up at the dark canopy overhead. Arthur was wrapped around him, his limbs thrown across Merlin’s body, holding him still as he sucked and kissed Merlin’s ear.

“No,” Arthur mumbled, moving down to Merlin’s neck. “On the second day we break up into smaller parties and actually try to catch something.”

Merlin laughed into a huff of breath. “Could we go alone?” he said after a moment, shifting into the feel of Arthur’s tongue on his neck. “Me and you?”

Arthur pulled back and blinked at him. “I suppose we could,” he said, frowning. “You’re not going to kill me and bury me in the forest, are you?”

Merlin glared at him. “No,” he replied, feigning annoyance. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Arthur considered this for a moment, then nodded and went back to sucking a bruise onto Merlin’s neck.

Which was how Arthur found himself clambering through dense undergrowth at mid-morning the next day. Merlin was just ahead of him, dressed in tight, moss-coloured breeches. His shirt was thin and pale, almost white, and he was wearing a brown hunting jerkin which stopped just short of his arse. Arthur’s was finding the whole thing very distracting.

“You do have a specific place in mind, don’t you, Merlin?” he called, finally losing his temper after getting his foot caught on a tree root and almost falling flat on his face. “There’s not much of a path here.”

Merlin grinned over his shoulder at him. “You’re not very patient, are you?” he teased, hoisting the leather satchel Will had given him earlier that morning a little higher on his shoulder.

“It’s hard to be patient when you’re scrabbling around on a dirty forest floor like a lost Druid.”

Merlin let out a bark of laughter. “That, right there, is why you’re not on good terms with them,” he chuckled, exasperated and amused. “You can’t always have things your own way.”

“I grew up with Morgana, I never had things my own way,” Arthur retorted with a perfectly justified level of frustration.

“You grew up as the king’s sole heir,” Merlin replied, still grinning. “With a pretty face, lovely blond hair, and an army of maids at your beck and call. You definitely had things your own way.”

“Pretty?” Arthur said, indignant. “ _Pretty._ ”

“Oh, shut up,” Merlin sighed, stumbling over a fallen branch. “It’s not far.”

After another ten minutes or so, Arthur motioned to Merlin’s satchel and said dejectedly, “What’s in that thing?”

“Food,” Merlin replied, not bothering to turn around.

“Food?” Arthur repeated. “It’s not very big.”

“There’s only two of us!” Merlin exclaimed. “And we just had breakfast.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, drawing out the word to emphasise his irritation. “But it does seem as though we’re going to be out here all bloody day.”

“Will has packed everything we need,” Merlin said, his head at just the right angle for Arthur to see him roll his eyes.

Arthur was about to respond - continue their bickering just for the sake of staving off boredom - but then Merlin stopped dead and Arthur almost collided with his back. When he looked up at the forest in front of them, Arthur realised that the thick undergrowth had abruptly ended and the muddy earth was sloping down into a wide glen, complete with a shallow river and grassy bank.

“Oh,” Arthur said, surprised. He swerved around Merlin, trotted down the slope, and came to a stop at the edge of the water.

He crossed his arms and surveyed the glen. It was pretty, with clutches of young flowers growing between the roots of the trees and beside speckled grey boulders. There were a few patches of mushrooms dotted here, and there and the sound of the river was low and comforting.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” Arthur asked loudly, turning to look up at Merlin, who shook his head, his eyes fixed on the far side of the glen.

“No,” he said, then swallowed. “That is.”

Arthur span around and felt the breath leave his body at what he saw; a gleaming white unicorn was standing between the trees at the top of the bank opposite him. Its mane was long and grey, knotted and wild in places, with streaks of white which caught the light as it moved and shone every colour of the rainbow. Its majestic grace in the half-lit courtyard in Camelot was nothing compared to its beauty as Arthur saw it now, in the full light of the sun, surrounded by the bright greens and yellows of the forest.

A warm presence at Arthur’s shoulder told him that Merlin had followed him down the bank. Arthur didn’t move as Merlin lifted his fingers to his lips and whistled. The unicorn lifted its head in what Arthur could only assume was recognition, and began to descend the bank. It walked through the shallow water of the river and came to a halt a few feet away from them.

Merlin reached out his hand, his voice hushed and otherworldly as he spoke, “Here, girl,” he said, brushing his fingers over the unicorn’s nose. “That’s it.”

It nuzzled into his hand and Merlin grinned. Arthur watched, transfixed, until Merlin turned to him and tilted his head towards the unicorn.

“You can touch her,” he said, his voice normal again. “You have magic in your blood, she’ll let you.”

Arthur took a step backwards, shaking his head. “No,” he said, unable to stop staring. “The magic I had is gone, I can’t.”

Merlin gave a laugh, grabbed Arthur’s hand and tugged him forwards again. “You don’t have to learn spells to have magic in you,” he sighed, guiding Arthur’s hand to the unicorn’s neck and flattening it against the smooth hair there. “It’s part of you, Arthur. You can ignore it if you want but it’ll always be there if you need it.”

Arthur took a deep breath, consciously relaxing his shoulders and easing into the rhythm of stroking the unicorn. It turned its head and brushed its nose against Arthur’s shoulder affectionately.

“She likes you,” Merlin said warmly. “Goodness knows why.”

“Shut up,” Arthur retorted, feeling a smile break out across his features. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening - he was touching a _unicorn,_ something he had only ever heard about in nursery rhymes before Merlin arrived in Camelot.

A fleeting kiss on his cheek made Arthur shift his focus. His hand dropped away from the unicorn and he angled his body towards Merlin, pulling him in for another kiss, tender and grateful. When he looked back at the unicorn, it was gone.

“But...” Arthur muttered indistinctly, turning his head this way and that in confusion.

He felt Merlin smile against his skin. “Yeah,” he murmured, kissing Arthur’s jaw. “They do that sometimes.”

Arthur sighed, frowning until Merlin placed a thumb on his forehead and smoothed out the creases. Arthur’s gaze dropped to Merlin’s lips - pink and full and a little wet - and then he was launching himself at Merlin, kissing him with abandon. He plunged his tongue deep into Merlin’s mouth and muffled his moans with quick, sharp pecks against his lips. Arthur closed his fingers around Merlin’s waist and pulled him closer, pressing their chests together and rolling his hips into Merlin’s.

With a gasp, Merlin gripped Arthur’s shoulders and rolled his hips as well. A sudden, hungry need washed over Arthur and he slipped his hands down to cup Merlin’s arse, loving the way his breeches were clinging to his skin. Arthur moved his lips to Merlin’s neck, sucking on the dark purple bruise he had made the night before, and shifted his fingers until they traced between the cheeks of Merlin’s arse. Merlin whined into Arthur’s ear at that, his hips stuttering, and Arthur wrenched himself away in order to shove Merlin to the ground.

They knelt in the soft grass. Arthur tugged off his boots and then started on Merlin’s jerkin, wrenching at the clasps and pulling it off his shoulders in movements that were almost violent. Merlin undid Arthur’s belt and bundled his shirt over his head. Then he reached for the laces of Arthur’s breeches, but Arthur was already crawling over him, making Merlin inch backwards until he was lying flat on the forest floor.

He gazed up at Arthur with wide, dark eyes and Arthur kissed him again, bracketing his head with his arms and moving against him in slow, even thrusts. Merlin wriggled, toeing off his boots, and Arthur grinned predatorily as he slipped his fingers between the laces of Merlin’s breeches and untied them with careful precision. Merlin lifted his hips as Arthur dragged his breeches down, revealing his half hard cock. Arthur slipped Merlin’s loose shirt over his chest and head and left it in a messy tangle around his wrists.

“Wait,” Merlin breathed, tilting his head towards his satchel, lying forgotten a few feet away. “In there. Look.”

Arthur pulled the bag over and unbuckled it, lifting the flap and rooting around inside until he pulled out a small jar of oil. Arthur held it up for Merlin to see, smirking and lifting his eyebrows, mocking and incredulous.

“Don’t you start,” Merlin warned, his cheeks flushing. “It’s not like you have anything to hand.”

Arthur laughed but was forced to concede, giving Merlin another hard, bruising kiss before setting the oil aside and fumbling with his own breeches. Merlin was writhing beneath him, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and he let out a relieved groan when Arthur finally managed to loosen his breeches and push them down to his knees. Arthur settled himself between Merlin’s thighs, taking a moment to run his palms over the thin, dark hair which covered them; grazing his thumb across the smooth, hot skin between Merlin’s legs.

Merlin’s cock was fully hard now, precome beginning to leak from the tip. Arthur wrapped his fingers around the base and slid them upwards, his breathing turning laboured as Merlin rolled his hips up, desperately searching for friction. Arthur took his hand away, making Merlin whimper in frustration, and reached for the jar of oil, twisting it open and dipping two fingers inside. He turned them over, ensuring there was a generous coating of oil, then lifted Merlin’s thigh with his free hand. Arthur wrapped Merlin’s leg around his waist, then shifted the angle of their bodies until he could watch as he circled Merlin’s hole with his index finger, spreading the oil across his skin.

Merlin was panting shamelessly, his voice catching on every exhale in a needy, high-pitched whine. He only got louder when Arthur added a second finger, his back arching off the grass and his nipples hard in the open air. Arthur glanced up to see Merlin’s wrists straining against his shirt, which was still twisted around them, keeping them locked together. Merlin’s eyes were squeezed shut but he nodded when Arthur pressed a third finger against his hole, slipping in the abundance of oil.

“Yes,” was all Merlin managed to say, the word little more than a breath. “Yes, Arthur, please. Yes.”

Arthur did as he was bid, sliding a third finger slowly into Merlin, watching his face change; it started twisted with desire and a slight edge of discomfort but slackened into a sweet, happy smile. Merlin’s expression relaxed more and more with each movement of Arthur’s wrist. He pulled his fingers out of Merlin’s hole and pushed them back in again; always slow, always careful.

“Merlin,” Arthur said when he didn’t think he could handle the straining hardness of his cock any longer. He knew his voice was ragged and broken but he didn’t care. “Can I fuck you? Please, Merlin, can I-”

“Yes,” Merlin panted, nodding again. “Yes. Fuck me, Arthur. Fuck me now. Please, Arthur, please. Do it.”

Arthur growled then, deep in his throat, and slid his fingers out of Merlin, reaching for the oil and slicking them anew. He rubbed the fresh oil along his cock, gasping and jerking at the relief of finally wrapping his fingers around it. He had to draw a deep breath as he lined the head up with Merlin’s hole. He was gripping a pale thigh in each hand, squeezing so tight it would probably bruise.

They both moaned as Arthur pushed inside, their mouths falling open in an attempt to recapture the breath that was driven from their bodies. Arthur fell forwards, catching himself with his arms braced on either side of Merlin’s head. Merlin’s thighs were clenching around his waist, holding his hips up as Arthur began to move, pumping in and out of Merlin’s body in an erratic rhythm.

Arthur blinked down at Merlin, at the way his teeth were sinking into his lower lip again, and dipped his head to kiss him. At first, he only caught the corner of Merlin’s mouth, but then Merlin turned his head and their tongues were tangling in a messy, urgent kiss. Merlin’s lips parted in another guttural moan when Arthur shifted his hips and hit a different spot inside him. Arthur panted against Merlin’s mouth, hot and wet, and tried the same angle again. Merlin writhed and pulled at the shirt wrapped around his wrists.

Arthur kept fucking Merlin like that, with the muscles of Merlin’s thighs straining to stay locked around his waist as he listened to Merlin’s muffled grunts and groans. He managed to hit the right spot inside Merlin every few thrusts, but eventually it wasn’t enough. He loved watching Merlin’s face as he fucked him, feeling Merlin’s breath against his cheek and having Merlin’s thighs spread for him, but the angle was getting awkward; he couldn’t push in as hard as he wanted without Merlin’s whole body sliding across the grass.

With a final kiss to Merlin’s soft, slack lips, Arthur pulled out and pushed Merlin’s thighs away from his waist. They dropped on top of each other as Merlin rolled onto his side.

“Turn over,” Arthur ordered, nudging Merlin’s ribs with an oil-slick hand. He watched as Merlin pried his wrists free of the thin white shirt and crawled onto his hands and knees, lifting his arse into the air and pressing his face into the grass.

Arthur grabbed Merlin’s hips and lined himself up again, pushing into Merlin’s slick, stretched hole with ease. Merlin moaned at once, making it clear that Arthur had found the right angle, and from then on Arthur wasted no time in pounding into Merlin, snapping his hips hard into Merlin’s arse and groaning along with him at the tight heat surrounding his cock.

Merlin’s fingers twisted in the grass and he gasped and panted. He turned his head to the side so that Arthur could see his face - could see the way his eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was gaping open, too far gone to do anything but lie still and let Arthur have his way with him.

It was a surprise when Merlin came, the white streaks falling across the grass as Arthur fucked him through his orgasm, forcing more loud, desperate moans from his throat. The feeling of Merlin tightening around him pushed Arthur to the edge. Then, Merlin started begging, his voice hoarse.

“Inside me, Arthur,” he said, his fingers still buried in the grass. “Come inside me, please. I want to feel it- feel you, I want- I want-”

And Arthur did. He pressed deep inside Merlin and came, his senses closing off for a split second as pleasure took control of him, making him groan and fall forwards, pressing his face into Merlin’s bare back and inhaling the scent of him as he filled his arse with come.

By the time Arthur slipped out of Merlin and slumped down beside him, he was aching all over. There were pains in his knees from pressing into the hard ground and his fingers felt stiff from locking around Merlin’s hips. Merlin coughed, his own discomfort clearly catching up with him, and turned over onto his back, groaning when his spine clicked.

“Bloody hell,” Merlin gasped, perfectly capturing Arthur’s own feelings.

Arthur grunted out a laugh and reached over to rest his hand on Merlin’s chest, tracing random patterns onto his skin. They were silent for a minute or so, each catching his breath, then Merlin cleared his throat.

“Do you fuck all your boys in the forest, or am I the only one who didn’t make it to your silk sheets back home?” he asked, staring at the trees overhead.

Arthur made a vaguely indignant sound and nudged Merlin playfully. “You’re the one who brought the oil,” he pointed out. Merlin stopped teasing him at once.

“You’re really good at that, you know,” he said instead.

“At fucking?” Arthur asked with a chuckle. Merlin laughed as well, then nodded. “Well, thanks. That means a lot.”

Merlin snorted, laughing even louder, and covered his face with his hands. “You’re impossible,” he groaned.

“What?” Arthur cried out, struggling up onto one elbow and looking down at Merlin, affronted. “What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin sighed, dropping his hands to his sides again and failing to hide his smile. “You too, Merlin. You were fantastic, Merlin. I wouldn’t have been anywhere near as good if I wasn’t with you, Merlin.”

“Oh,” Arthur huffed, frowning at a nondescript point across the glen. “Umm- yes, all of that, then. That’s what I meant.”

Merlin shook his head, still chuckling to himself, and Arthur thought he looked so beautiful like that, with his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed bright pink with exertion, that he couldn’t help leaning down and kissing him. Merlin just laughed a little harder against Arthur’s lips, resting his hands lightly on Arthur’s cheeks in a loose attempt to show he appreciated the gesture.

Arthur pulled away, smiling, and spread out on his back. Merlin sat up next to him. After examining the mess between his legs for a moment, he turned to Arthur and tilted his head.

“Will you let me see him?” Merlin asked, surprisingly nonchalant.

“Who?” Arthur said, suspecting that he already knew the answer.

“The dragon. I’ve felt him calling to me more and more over the past few weeks.”

Arthur sighed and rubbed his forehead. He had known that sordid creature couldn’t be trusted. “I don’t suppose I have much choice,” he grumbled at last. “So, yes. I will.”


	8. Chapter 8

There was a dejected atmosphere at Court for a week after things returned to normal. It was always that way - nobles and servants alike awaited the May Hunt with such naked zeal that its passing left them exhausted and miserable. Arthur was usually the worst of the lot but he had too many other things on his mind to dwell on despondency.

For one thing, he had promised Merlin a meeting with the dragon and that, inevitably, would lead to Arthur having to _release_ the dragon if he wanted to go on fucking Merlin on forest floors - or anywhere, for that matter. It was a decision he wished he had made at the start of his reign, when it had been less likely to result in Camelot being burnt to the ground. All these years of captivity definitely had not warmed the dragon to Camelot or its rulers.

In the end, Arthur waited just two days before leading Merlin down to the lower levels of the castle. It was early evening and their shadows stretched out behind them, long and faint in the dying light. They hardly spoke, not even when Arthur came to a halt at the mouth of the final tunnel and motioned for Merlin to continue without him. He had considered joining Merlin, anxious to defend himself against the harsh judgements the dragon would surely spout, but when it came to it, Arthur knew that Merlin needed to be alone.

This was righting a wrong, or so Arthur told himself as he ascended the staircase from the dungeons and headed back to his own chambers. Merlin and the dragon were the last of their kind and if Arthur’s birth was what had led to that fate, it was his duty to put it right. He struggled to concentrate as he wrote letters and read border reports by candlelight in his quarters, seeing _magic_ and _liar_ in every other word.

Arthur didn’t realise he was nodding off until the feeling of a warm palm on his shoulder roused him. He blinked through the dim light - it must have been late, since so many of the candles had sputtered out - and looked up to see Merlin.

“Working too hard?” he murmured.

Arthur snorted and pushed his chair out from under the table, his movements sluggish. “No,” he said. “Not working hard enough.”

Merlin grinned. He stayed close as Arthur got to his feet and dragged himself towards the bed, shedding his clothes and pulling on a shift as he went. They sat side by side on the edge of the mattress. Merlin lifted his knees, crossing his legs, and Arthur noticed that his feet were bare. He had the sudden urge to kiss them.

“How was it?” he asked instead, pulling himself up to lean against the headboard so that he and Merlin were facing each other.

“Interesting,” Merlin said, bobbing his whole upper body in muted a nod. “I’ll be going back again.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed, stretching his shoulders. Sleep was creeping up on him.

Merlin’s fingers brushed along Arthur’s toes; a distracted, intimate touch. “You need to tell Morgana,” he said.

Arthur yawned, nodding as he did so. “She won’t speak to me,” he pushed his foot into Merlin’s lap and huffed happily when Merlin started rubbing it. “Before the hunt, I told her about how I hated magic, and now she won’t talk to me.”

“You don’t hate magic,” Merlin said softly.

“No, I don’t.”

Arthur remembered very little after that. He felt too warm and loose to fight off sleep. He was vaguely aware of lips against his forehead and gentle hands covering him with a blanket, but he was alone when he woke the next morning.

****

June had begun by the time Arthur managed a civil conversation with Morgana. He had seen her every day, he had sat beside her at every council meeting and even dined with her once or twice, but her resentment towards him was clear. He didn’t push - not after trying to speak to her once in the council chambers and only getting four words out before she turned on him, furious, and informed him that she didn’t want to hear it; that he had betrayed her trust. Arthur had shouted back, telling her to take a look at what he had done for her, asking what new laws he needed to pass for her to see that he wasn’t his father. The appearance of three alarmed noblewomen ended their argument before anything else could be said.

It was at the end of an afternoon training session that Merlin brought her to him. Arthur was laughing with the knights, listening to one of Elyan’s old stories from before he returned to Camelot. Morgana was waiting at the edge of the practice field when he looked up, her ivory dress shining in the bright sunlight, and Merlin was close at her side, speaking softly to her as she watched Arthur approach.

“My lady,” he said when they were close enough to speak. He handed his sword to a page boy and gave Morgana a slow bow. “It’s nice to see you.”

Merlin looked between them apprehensively for a moment, squeezing Morgana’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. Arthur couldn’t help but notice this small detail, surprised by his own ignorance of their friendship - Merlin had known Morgana for as long as he had known Arthur, and he actually had more in common with her, destiny excluded. Morgana didn’t look back at Merlin when he hailed Gwaine and Percival and rushed off to join their trudge back to the castle; her eyes were fixed on Arthur’s face.

“Do you want to sit down?” Arthur asked her, a little hesitant. She nodded and he led the way over to a wooden bench. He picked up an abandoned cloak - probably Gwaine’s - and flattened it out on the seat for her, shrugging half-heartedly when she gave him a reproachful look. They sat in silence, leaning against the wall and looking out over the lower towns and the fields beyond.

“Did Merlin tell you about my mother?” Arthur said when he didn’t think he could stand the silence any longer.

“He said I should hear it from you,” she answered, her voice very even and calm.

Arthur nodded and let out a puff of breath. He leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees, summoning up his courage. He hadn’t tried saying it aloud since Merlin had told him, but Morgana was worth it.

“My mother and father used magic to have me,” he said in a rush. “They had to pay with a life, that’s why my mother died, and I think there was a lot of magic left over in me afterwards.”

Morgana nodded stiffly. She was staring at her interlocking fingers and rubbing the pad of her thumb across her palm, over and over. She had a frown on her face and her mouth was curving down at the corners.

“I think that the magic in me hurt when I saw sorcerers killed for what they were. I didn’t understand it. I think-” Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the words out before he lost his nerve. “I think I must have connected the shame and the pain that I felt with the sorcerers rather than with what was happening to them. Father always said that it was right, that it was justice, and I believed him. I was young and he was the king - I thought he was always right. Since then, I’ve tried. I promise you, Morgana, for years I’ve tried and I think even now there’s a block in me that I can’t shift. I don’t _want_ to feel this way.”

Arthur looked at Morgana then, imploring, and she straightened up, turning to face him. The movement was so sudden that it made Arthur jump. He saw the defiant set of her jaw and prepared himself to be scorned.

“Let me try something,” she ordered, the lack of hostility in her tone catching Arthur off-guard. “Give me your hands.”

Arthur did as he was told, sitting up and holding out his hands, palms upwards. Morgana grabbed them and turned them over, bending his wrists so the his palms were facing her instead. She caught his gaze then and held it, something significant in her look, before pressing her hands against his and interlacing their fingers.

Arthur opened his mouth to ask what she was doing but her eyes had already drifted shut and she was mumbling under her breath, her fingers gripping his tightly. There was a moment when Arthur felt incredibly aware of his surroundings - of the sound of swords being sharpened and armour collected by the boys dotted around the training field; of the scullery maids giggling as they carried fresh water back from the well just outside the castle walls; of the singing of birds and the distant shouts of children playing. It ended abruptly when Arthur felt a tendril of magic curl around his left hand.

He recoiled, trying to free himself from Morgana’s grip, but she held fast, wrestling his arms away from his body and panting, “Stop it, Arthur, stop! Give me a chance.”

“What’re you doing to me?” Arthur choked out, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Trying to help you,” Morgana said with frustration. “You said there’s magic that’s been bundled up in you for your whole life. Let me see if I can reach it, maybe soften it a little.”

Arthur swallowed, nausea threatening to consume him. He studied Morgana’s face, the urgency in her eyes bringing back memories of the night she had first told him of her magic - how frightened she had been, how desperate. If she could face that for him, he could do this for her. He needed to.

Once Arthur had nodded, Morgana loosened her grip on his hands and closed her eyes again. This time, Arthur was ready. His muscles stiffened and locked as her magic wrapped around him but he did not pull away. Goosebumps appeared on Arthur’s forearms and the back of his neck as golden threads tightened around his ribs, snaking upwards until they were twisting in smooth, soothing patterns over his heart.

As the sickness cleared from his stomach, Arthur began to feel a pressure that he had never noticed fading away inside his chest. It felt heavy and dark. Arthur closed his eyes instinctively and saw a deep, dull grey dissolve in uneven patches until there was nothing but clean, silver light.

Arthur gasped when Morgana’s magic withdrew from around him, drawing out a tiny, sizzling thread of something foreign and strange from deep inside him. Morgana was smirking when he opened his eyes. Arthur tried to squash the gurgle of magic in his stomach by gulping and clearing his throat, but it made no difference.

“You don’t have to use it,” Morgana told him, covering one of his hands with both of hers. “But hopefully now it won’t make you quite so insufferable.”

Arthur ran a shaking hand through his hair, feeling dampness and realising dimly that he was still in his armour, baking under the hot summer sun. He finally managed to process what Morgana had said and shot her a glare accordingly. She laughed. Her smile was such a relief after weeks of coldness that Arthur grinned too, his own chuckle high and winded.

“If only you’d asked me years ago,” Morgana said, looking at him with fondness and exasperation. “You’ve never kept your end of the bargain - you were supposed to confide in me.”

Arthur stood up and stretched, the ache from training returning to his muscles. He felt exhilarated, somehow different from the man he had woken as that morning. He knew what he had to do now; he didn’t want to keep anything else from Morgana.

“In that case, there’s something else you need to know about,” he said, steeling himself for the shift in tension. Morgana got to her feet as well, her expression wary.

“There is?”

Arthur nodded. “Follow me.”

****

“Ah, Lady Morgana,” the dragon crooned as soon as Morgana walked through the archway and into its cave. “I see your brother has finally confessed his sins.”

Arthur tugged the torch from its place, the movement feeling almost routine by now, and held it up, casting light across the creature. He didn’t look up, instead focusing on his sister and her wide, shocked eyes.

“Yes,” the dragon continued, ruffling its wings a little. “I have always been here. It’s almost thirty years since Uther Pendragon imprisoned me.”

“I don’t understand,” Morgana said, her voice soft and faint. “How could this happen? How could you not tell me?”

With this she turned to Arthur. There was no anger in her eyes, no fury, only dazed hurt. He let out a ragged breath and wet his dry lips, at a complete loss for what to say. Morgana looked him up and down, then nodded and clasped her hands in front of her as though his face had given her the answer she sought.

“You didn’t trust me,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “You didn’t trust that I’d obey you over something like this.”

“No, Morgana, there’s no one I trust more than you,” Arthur blurted, appalled and desperate. “I was- I was frightened. I made a stupid decision, a _wrong_ decision, and then it was too late, and I was too ashamed to tell anyone.”

The dragon laughed, loud and cruel, and its expression became a vicious sneer. “Uther Pendragon’s son ashamed of his own likeness to his father? I must say, I am surprised.”

“I am not ashamed of my father,” Arthur snapped, wheeling around to face the dragon. “For all his sins, for all his mistakes, I loved him as he loved me. I’m ashamed of my failure to right his wrongs; of my reluctance to make peace with a foul but innocent creature such as you.”

The dragon blinked at him and, for once, stayed silent. Arthur drew his attention back to Morgana, who was hunching her shoulders, her arms crossed defensively.

“You knew I wouldn’t stand for this,” she said, still not looking at Arthur. Her voice was stronger now. “You knew I’d demand that you set it free.”

“I did,” Arthur admitted.

“And will you?” she asked, her gaze sharp as it fell on him.

“The young prince has already promised me my freedom,” the dragon said, watching them closely. Arthur’s heart sunk.

“Merlin knows?” Morgana hissed.

“Not for long,” Arthur exclaimed hurriedly, a little overwhelmed. “He’s a dragonlord, he could sense its presence. I had to bring him,” then Arthur glanced at the dragon. “And he hasn’t even asked me yet, so don’t you start boasting.”

“I can’t believe you told _Merlin_ before me,” Morgana said, still glaring.

“He’s a dragonlord!” Arthur repeated, exasperated. “Do you even know what that means? He knew the bloody thing was here the moment he walked into the castle.”

Morgana pursed her lips and looked back at the dragon, her expression determined. “I have magic too,” she said. “Why couldn’t I sense you?”

“Your powers are very slight compared to his, my lady,” the dragon retorted, a hint of venom in its voice that Arthur would not have expected to hear directed at Morgana. “You may be a High Priestess but your sisters have all perished. You are but a shadow of the potential once alive in the Old Religion.”

Morgana’s jaw set into a hard line at that. “I see,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “And what about the work that I’ve done? Magic would still be outlawed if it wasn’t for me.”

“Perhaps,” the dragon conceded, its eyes glinting. “But I know something of your aborted fate, my lady, and it does not give me much confidence in you. I have no time for feral witches.”

Morgana clenched her fists and made to step towards the dragon, overcome by anger. Then she thought better of it and turned tail, storming out of the cave. Arthur blinked, startled, and fumbled to return his torch to its place before chasing after her. He called out but she ignored him, rushing along the tunnel and up the stairs. She sped through the castle, not slowing until she reached Merlin’s door, shoving it open and coming to a stop just over the threshold.

“You promised to release a dragon in the middle of Camelot?” she shouted, seething, as Arthur skidded to a stop behind her. “After all the kindness we’ve shown you, you would let us burn in our sleep.”

Merlin was frozen at the table, quill in hand, staring at them in dismay. Will was in the corner clutching a pale brown tunic - obviously interrupted in the middle of folding clothes.

“Um,” Merlin said, his expression blank.

Arthur elbowed his way into the room beside Morgana. “Really, Morgana, I’m sure Merlin wasn’t going to-”

“I was going to ask Arthur to do it,” Merlin blurted out, cutting Arthur off mid-excuse. He blushed when they both looked at him. “Well- I mean, when the time was right.”

“When the time was right?” Arthur parroted, incredulous. “And when might that have been?”

“In a post-coital haze, no doubt,” Morgana muttered spitefully.

Arthur inhaled, all set to protest this statement, but the fresh blush creeping over Merlin’s cheeks stopped him short.

“Brilliant,” he said, the fight draining from him. “That’s just fantastic, isn’t it? I’m releasing a sodding dragon and I’m not even getting a shag out of it.”

Morgana whipped around to face him. “You’re releasing it?” she said, her eyes wide again. Merlin had perked up as well.

“Of course I’m releasing it,” Arthur sighed. “You heard what I said - it was a mistake to keep it locked up at all.”

Arthur caught Will’s eye then and gave him an awkward nod. Will smirked at him, clearly amused, and went back to folding clothes.

“I’ll shag you afterwards, if you like?” Merlin said uncertainly. Morgana had to cover her mouth to hide her laugh.

****

Planning took a few days. The dragon’s cave extended for several miles to the north, opening onto a rocky outcropping in the mountains. The distance between the dragon’s release point and Camelot went some way to reassuring Arthur, but the fact that its existence needed to be kept a secret still worried him. If they could not convince the dragon to spare Camelot, there was no way they could return to the castle on horseback fast enough to warn anyone of its approach; at least half of the city would be destroyed by the time they arrived.

During their discussions, Morgana was still brusque with Arthur from time to time. Her anger over being kept in the dark had not yet passed but, thankfully, the atmosphere was nothing like it had been during the May Hunt. On the whole she had returned to her old, considerate-if-somewhat-critical self.

For his part, Arthur tried to be as active as possible in the planning process, but he often found himself feeling useless. He had only his battle skills to offer during Merlin and Morgana’s extensive discussions on which cloaking enchantment would best get them out of Camelot unnoticed. All Arthur was able to do was cancel council meetings to give them more time to work on the details, but that didn’t feel like enough of a contribution to him.

The night they were set to leave, Merlin went to relay their plan to the dragon - a conversation Arthur was all too happy to miss - before meeting Arthur in the moonlit entrance hall. They bickered loudly about the view from the foot of the eastern battlements, then marched off across the courtyard, claiming at the tops of their voices that a visit to the battlements was the only way to settle the quarrel.

Once out of sight of the guards, they made for the northern gate instead, keeping as quiet as possible. The journey went smoothly - excluding, of course, the appearance of one black cat. It startled Merlin so severely that he stumbled into Arthur and they knocked over a stack of empty crates. The twenty or so whispered apologies which followed this made Arthur regret glaring at Merlin with quite so much intensity.

There were supposed to be three horses waiting for them at the gate when they arrived, but they found only two.

“Bugger,” Arthur cursed, peering around in the hope of discovering the third horse hiding behind the empty guard hut. “Now what?”

Merlin looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Two of us can share,” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Which two?” Arthur asked wearily.

“Probably one of us and Morgana, since she’s the one who’s late,” Merlin said, glancing back up the street as if expecting her to appear in time to argue.

Arthur nodded and began untying the horses. “Alright,” he agreed. “But she won’t be happy about it.”

Morgana arrived just five minutes later, dressed in a red, hooded cloak. 

“It’s for disguise,” she explained when Arthur commented on it. “I can’t have people recognising me if I’m sneaking out of Camelot.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Disguise?” he chuckled, rubbing the red fabric between his fingers. Morgana swiped his hand away. “I’m sorry, Morgana, but I don’t see any logic in that. If you don’t want to be recognised, why are you prancing around in a great billowing cloak which costs more than half the market?”

“Every time you say something like that, the amount of time before I forgive you gets a little longer,” Morgana bit out, brushing past him and whipping her cloak out of the way as she climbed onto his horse.

“Why do I have to ride with you?” Arthur asked, his stomach sinking at the thought of Morgana at his ear for the whole journey, correcting his riding technique and gloating that Mordred was a better sorcerer than swordsman.

“I can ride with Merlin if you like,” she replied, all fake sweetness, and Arthur’s stomach tightened again at the thought of seeing Morgana with her arms wrapped around Merlin’s waist, her thighs pressed up against his.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Arthur amended, swallowing thickly and clearing his throat. “Let’s get going, shall we? I think I’ll take the reins for now.”

It was only an hour or so before they reached the cliff path and dismounted, leaving the horses tied beneath a clutch of trees. Arthur’s nerves were on edge; not only would he be coming face to face with an unchained dragon very soon, but also Morgana had spent the whole ride jabbing him in the ribs and nudging his legs forward, trying to find a comfortable position.

The path was narrow and made of compacted dirt, surrounded by lush grass and small, unkempt bushes. It was well trodden - so well used, in fact, that it had sunk a significant amount compared to the greenery that made up its borders. They made their way around the tip of the mountain from the southern face.

Merlin was in the lead, looking as though he was fit to burst with energy. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists and bobbing up and down to see further down the path. A few times, Arthur was sure he saw him skip as he took a step. It was... surprisingly endearing. They had never discussed Merlin’s affiliations with the dragons, both sensing that it was far too sensitive a subject for Arthur’s fragile grip on the issue of magic, but his excitement then made Arthur’s heart sing with pride. He was almost glad that he had waited until Merlin’s visit to release the dragon - the crippling guilt might well be worth the pure, unerring joy that was rolling off Merlin.

After just under an hour, they found the mouth of the cave. It was even larger than Arthur had expected. The cliff path led to a small rocky outcrop a hundred feet up, then trickled down to the floor of the cave. Merlin was eager to climb down and wait there but Morgana refused, saying she would much rather be eye to eye with the dragon than facing its knees. Arthur was forced to agree - it was an honour thing. A king could only be humbled so much; he may have been sorry for its treatment, but he didn’t want the dragon’s final sighting of him to be as a pitiful creature crouching at its feet. He had more pride than that.

Morgana sat down, her back to the jagged mountain wall, and started fussing with the folds of her cloak. Merlin settled at the edge of the outcrop and began chanting a spell to break the dragon’s chains. Arthur looked between them, at a loss for what to do until he spotted a small pile of chipped rocks at the edge of the path. He gathered them up and began throwing them, one by one, into the deep ravine between their mountain and the next.

The action reminded him of some of the hunting expeditions he had joined as a boy - he had been the only noble his age, finding each evening duller than the last with no one to talk to. Arthur could still remember standing beside rivers or at the edge of sheer cliffs as the sun sank behind the trees, casting small stones out into the empty air. He had listened to them plunk beneath the water, or watched as they disappeared into the shadows beneath him.

Eventually, there was a break in the low hum of Merlin’s chanting. Arthur turned around to see him standing on the edge of the outcrop, bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning.

“It worked,” Merlin said, a little out of breath.

Morgana jerked to attention. “How do you know?”

Merlin rubbed his hands together and glanced back at the mouth of the cave. “I can feel him flying.”

There was just enough time between Merlin finishing his spell and the dragon arriving at the mouth of the cave for Arthur to go from being overwhelmed by shivers to feeling sick with dread, before he finally stuck somewhere around a flushed, warm nervousness. They could hear the dragon’s wingbeats as it approached. They arranged themselves in a line along the edge of the outcrop, Arthur closest to the mouth of the cave, Merlin furthest and Morgana between them. She looked small like that, in between two taller men, and Arthur gave her a reassuring smile, brushing his fingers over the back of her hand just as the dragon alighted in front of them.

For a minute or so, it ignored them, turning its face into the breeze with its eyes closed. The dragon was breathing deeply, the rattle of its lungs loud in the quiet night. Arthur watched, transfixed. He wondered what it must feel like, tasting fresh air for the first time in almost thirty years, and swallowed the bitter lump of guilt in his throat once more. Perhaps the dragon’s hatred of him had not been rooted in its evil heart, but in its helplessness.

“Kilgharrah,” said Merlin’s voice, startling Arthur. He glanced over, puzzled. “Kilgharrah,” Merlin repeated, watching the dragon. “You are free.”

The dragon opened its eyes and turned to face them, bowing its head to Merlin. “Indeed I am, young prince,” it said. The dark twist of its voice was all but gone - instead it sounded old and wise. “Never before have I seen the beauty in the stars quite as clearly as I do now.”

Merlin smiled. “And may you admire them for many years to come,” he said, forever the charming prince.

“Dragon,” Arthur blurted out, his chest tightening. “Dragon, I want you to know-”

“My name is Kilgharrah,” the dragon told him, its gaze hardening a little. “You have never asked for it, but you must use it now if you wish for me to listen.”

Arthur nodded, taking a deep breath. “Kilgharrah,” he began again, glancing at the other two as he spoke. “I’m sorry. What I did to you was wrong. It’s probably the worst thing I’ll ever do for my whole life. I’m not my father. I honour him every day but still, every day, I try to be better than him; to be a good king. I’m sorry.”

The dragon - Kilgharrah - dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Arthur Pendragon,” he said, his tone free of the malice Arthur had grown to expect. “I will never forgive you. I had great hopes for you, but your efforts to find justice in Camelot did not stretch as far as the cave where you hid me. I am grateful to you for finally righting this wrong but I will not forget all the years you spent prolonging it.”

Arthur opened his mouth to respond but Morgana interrupted him. Her eyes were wild and her voice edged with panic as she demanded, “Do not harm Camelot.”

Kilgharrah drew his head back, ruffled his wings, and surveyed her.

“Please,” she said, softer. “Our people are innocent in this, don’t hurt them.”

In silence, Kilgharrah turned towards the wide, empty ravine and arched his neck, blowing out a stream of bright golden flames which lit the whole side of the mountain. A wave of heat washed over them all as the flames faded into nothing. Morgana gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

“Dragons live for a very long time, witch,” Kilgharrah hissed, turning a familiar, foul grin on them. “But thirty years will always feel like forever if you are forbidden your freedom. Tell me something; would you fly away into the sunset and never think of Camelot again?”

Morgana lifted her chin, defiant and brave. “I would do whatever I could to ensure that innocent people did not suffer as I had,” she said, and Arthur’s stomach twisted into knots at the strength of his love for her.

“I have heard a different story,” Kilgharrah replied, narrowing his eyes at her. “I will promise you and your brother nothing.”

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin said suddenly. There was a strange, eerie quality to his voice; etched with power and command. “You will not touch Camelot.”

The way Kilgharrah looked at him then was indecipherable - Arthur would have said it was pleading if he hadn’t known the dragon better.

“I am a dragonlord, do not forget that,” Merlin continued. Arthur could feel the power radiating from him; see it in the harsh line of muscle in his jaw and the stiffness of his shoulders. “If I command you to leave their city alone, you must obey me.”

“You would not dare-” Kilgharrah began, his voice low.

“Oh, I would,” Merlin cut in. Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off him. “We have given you a new life tonight, do not use it to destroy the lives of others.”

There was a moment of tension as Merlin and Kilgharrah stared at each other, seemingly oblivious to all else, and then the dragon dipped his head, his scales reflecting the moonlight.

“As you command,” he said, subservient. Arthur could hardly believe it.

After giving the three of them one last, assessing look, Kilgharrah turned his face skywards again. He extended his wings and rushed forwards, beating them in extraordinarily heavy, powerful strokes as he dropped off the edge of the ravine. Arthur watched as Kilgharrah flew away, disappearing behind the outline of the mountain opposite them, and felt the remaining, ragged vestiges of darkness and guilt melt away in his stomach. Now he was free, too.

Morgana was far more complacent for the journey home. She rested her chin on Arthur’s shoulder, yawning every now and then, and held herself on firmly by wrapping her arms around his chest. Arthur and Merlin spoke every once in awhile, either to admire the night or squabble about something insignificant. They rode back into Camelot with a lot less mind for secrecy than when they had left and returned the horses to the stables, ensuring there was at least one squire around to see to their needs before leaving.

They escorted Morgana to her chambers first. She was quiet and her movements lacked their usual sharp certainty but her expression was serious when she turned to face Arthur at the door.

“I want you to know that I’m still angry with you,” she said. “You betrayed my trust and you didn’t come to me for help when you needed it.” Morgana took a deep breath. “Even so, I’ve decided to carry on treating you normally. I don’t think I can take one more day with Lancelot and Agravaine as my only male companions.”

Arthur snorted at that and she smirked.

“They’re lovely,” she went on, still smiling. “Agravaine would listen to me talk until my throat went hoarse but he has very little of his own to offer, and Lancelot- well, he makes Gwen happy but _goodness_ is he boring.”

“He’s a brave warrior with a great deal of skill,” Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “And he’s possibly the most honourable man at Court.”

“I know,” Morgana sighed, rolling her eyes. “All he ever talks about is training and you, and, quite frankly, I’d rather not hear about either.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, feigning indignation, and Morgana wished him and Merlin goodnight, heading into her chambers with another yawn. Once she was gone, Arthur insisted on escorting Merlin back to his chambers as well, so they set off through the dark castle. They didn’t speak, they just listened to the pat of their boots against the stone floor.

When they reached Merlin’s chambers, he turned and leant against the wall beside the door, surveying Arthur with a hot gaze. It was oddly reminiscent of Merlin’s first night in Camelot. Arthur cleared his throat and smiled, feeling a little awkward, and Merlin’s face split into an enormous grin. He stepped forward and slid his hands beneath Arthur’s jacket to bracket his waist.

“I’m proud of you,” Merlin murmured, brushing his nose against Arthur’s. “Very proud.”

He kissed Arthur, deep and wet, and Arthur kissed back, pressing their chests together and melting into the warmth between their bodies. Merlin was still grinning when he pulled away, reaching for the door handle and letting himself into his chambers.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” he whispered, playful, and then he was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

A few days later, Arthur _did_ get his congratulatory shag. It was rather brilliant - it must have been, to leave them both lying, exhausted, on the rug in Arthur’s chambers, panting and sweaty. The summer stretched out in front of them, promising long, lazy days, and Arthur hoped it would last forever. With each day, the sun was a little hotter and Merlin’s hair curled a little bit more around his ears. Eventually, as the end of June began to rear its head, Merlin stopped wearing his formal jackets and his thick tunics; instead dressing only in thin shirts and breeches.

One afternoon, after escaping a particularly dull council meeting, they took a few books from Geoffrey’s library and spread them out on the grass in the royal gardens. The shadow of a large willow kept them from the worst of the heat as they read; Merlin sitting cross-legged and Arthur lying flat on his back, his bare feet nestled in Merlin’s lap.

“We don’t have books of poetry in Avalon,” Merlin said suddenly, a little wistful.

Arthur frowned at him. “You don’t?”

“No,” Merlin ran his fingers over the pages of the book in his hand. “There are lots of enormous history tomes and not much else. You tend to find that royals are much better at reading elegant things than writing them. They stick to copying out dull histories in their spare time.”

“You mean to say that you haven’t read a poem since you were twelve?” Arthur asked, incredulous.

Merlin smiled. “I couldn’t read before I went to Avalon - I’m a peasant, Arthur, remember?”

“Oh, of course,” Arthur muttered, abandoning his own book and propping himself up on his elbows. “So you’ve never read a poem at all?”

“I’ve visited Albion a few times and heard minstrels recite them at feasts,” Merlin said. “But, on the whole? No, I haven’t actually read one. Well- besides these.”

Merlin raised the book in his hand, a poetry anthology, and Arthur tilted his head to read the title - it was one of his favourites.

“And do you like it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Merlin sighed, flicking through the pages with a small, sad crease in his brow. “I love it.”

Arthur sat up properly then, pulling his feet out of Merlin’s lap and setting his own book aside. “I’ve got a suggestion,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss Merlin’s cheek. “How about you keep it?”

“This?” Merlin said, lifting the book, his eyes wide and strikingly blue.

“Yes,” Arthur huffed, grinning and kissing Merlin again. “And, if you like, we can try and steal a few more from Geoffrey before the end of the summer.”

Their faces were very close when their eyes met. Merlin’s were round and sincere, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. “I can take them home with me?” he breathed.

Arthur nodded, then was almost bowled over by the force of Merlin’s shoulder crashing into his chin. He squeezed Arthur, smiling against his neck, and Arthur felt a pang of loss shoot through in his stomach. He wrapped his arms around Merlin and held him tight, trying not to think about quite how desperately he wished Merlin’s ‘home’ was somewhere closer. There were a few months left before Merlin’s visit came to an end, but the preciousness of each day dawned on Arthur afresh.

“I’ll miss you,” he mumbled into Merlin’s collar, tracing soft patterns up and down his back.

Merlin kissed him again and said, “There’s a while left yet. You might be glad to see the back of me - I’ve caused enough trouble already.”

Arthur laughed at that and shoved Merlin’s shoulder. They grinned at each other for a moment before going back to their books, both blushing a little.

There didn’t seem to be a lot to do now that most of Camelot’s summer festivities had passed. Merlin’s initial task to consider a treaty with Avalon had not been forgotten, only waylaid, so Arthur took him on a few trips to the lower towns to ask ordinary folk about their livelihoods and beliefs. Unfortunately, coming face to face with a Sidhe prince of whom they had been hearing rumours for months produced a lot of mumbling and stuttering from Camelot’s smithies and market workers, and little else. Merlin did his best, smiling warmly and showing genuine interest, but he didn’t get very far with his questions.

When, over breakfast sometime in July, Gwen mentioned that she and Myrtle would be spending the day gardening with the Court orphans, both Arthur and Merlin jumped at the chance to assist; Merlin loved spending time with the children and Arthur loved watching Merlin spend time with them. They followed Gwen to the west wing of the castle and led the gaggle of excited children down to a small, enclosed area on the eastern edge of the gardens. Arthur held hands with the little girl who he had seen casting spells in April and Merlin had at least three boys hanging onto his wrists at any given time, asking loud, obnoxious questions about Avalon and how it felt to be dead.

The gardening itself was good fun. The sun baked down on them and Arthur’s hair was soon damp with sweat, but the children were surprisingly quiet and focused, digging each of their holes meticulously, placing the seeds inside, and patting down the fresh earth. Arthur had never planted anything before. He watched Merlin out of the corner of his eye, copying every step exactly, but before long Merlin had abandoned his own seeds in favour of helping the children.

As he knelt there in the mud, watching Merlin laugh and smile sweetly with a streak of dirt above his eyebrow, Arthur felt an overwhelming rush of affection. He wanted to pin Merlin down and claim him forever; to hoist him up onto his shoulders and tell the whole world to look at Merlin, to listen to Merlin, to love Merlin as he did. It surprised Arthur, how completely and absolutely sure he was that he loved Merlin. A few months have never seemed like long enough to want to give your life to another before Merlin arrived in Camelot. Arthur caught his eye and smiled, joyful, fond, and aching with the dread of knowing that soon they would be parted as distantly as could ever be possible.

The summer carried on in this fashion for quite some time, with Arthur and Merlin spending most days together, meeting citizens, attending council sessions, and lazing around in the sun. Arthur hadn’t spent seven years perfecting the governing of his kingdom for it to fall apart when he took a break - in fact, as the days dragged by, it seemed as though Camelot was surviving very well. Perhaps the kingdom truly could go on as normal, even if its king disappeared.

Arthur said as much to Lancelot and Guinevere when the three of them were out for a slow, ambling walk in the forest one morning. They both smiled at him, clearly torn between amusement and pity.

“There isn’t a soul in this kingdom who isn’t grateful for all you’ve done,” Lancelot said. “If we can exist without you then that’s nothing but evidence of all you’ve worked for.”

Arthur nodded and sighed contentedly. “It’s like having a child,” he said after a moment, thoughtful. “I’ve invested everything into making it grow so strong that I’m useless to it.”

Lancelot stopped walking and when Arthur turned around, his expression was far too serious for the beauty of the morning. “You’ll never be useless, Arthur,” he said and Arthur grinned.

“It was a figure of speech,” he explained, shrugging. They continued their walk, admiring the lushness of the trees and the abundance of wildflowers at their roots.

“How long until Merlin returns to Avalon?” Gwen asked after a short while. Arthur glanced at her; she was plucking raspberries from a bush at the edge of the path and dropping them into a pocket she had made in the front of her skirt.

“Well, let’s see,” Arthur said, keeping his voice light. “It’s mid-July right now and he said he’d be here until the end of summer, so I suppose that’s about a month and a half away. I expect he’ll be leaving around Calan Gaeaf in September.”

“Do you think he’ll miss the festival?”

Arthur frowned. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Merlin hadn’t been very precise. “I expect he’ll want to see it - he loved Calan Mai.”

“So I hear,” Lancelot chuckled. Gwen was smirking as well when Arthur turned to glare at them. Lancelot raised his hands in a light-hearted surrender. “If you don’t want everyone to know, don’t take up with people who are friends with Gwaine.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and kicked a pebble into the undergrowth. “I’m going to kill her,” he muttered. He wasn’t ashamed, it didn’t matter to him if the whole of Albion knew, but he had hoped Merlin would know better than to confide in _Gwaine._

Gwen cleared her throat to break the awkward silence and offered Arthur a berry. Once he had taken it, she asked, “Do you have any idea whether Merlin will grant your request or not?”

“Actually, no,” Arthur replied, surprised by how little he had considered that. “I haven’t got a clue.”

Merlin hadn’t really given the impression that he was assessing Camelot since their visit to Caerllion. Even before that, it had been impossible to guess what his verdict would be. He had been kind and considerate with Arthur, recognising his problems and helping him with them rather than hating him. He had formed friendships in the castle and seemed happy whenever he spoke to Arthur’s subjects, but he never gave any hint of his intentions for the end of the summer. Arthur had no idea whether he and Morgana would have done enough to secure Avalon for their people.

Arthur realised that Gwen was still speaking and refocused his attention in time to hear her say something about how lovely Merlin was and how much attention Arthur and Morgana had paid him.

“I’m sure he’ll do what’s right,” she finished, beaming. “When will he be telling you?”

“I- umm, I don’t know that, either,” Arthur admitted. His stomach was sinking. If it was good news, surely Merlin would be bringing it up any day now. If it was bad then perhaps he was waiting until he left, not wanting to ruin their final month together. Arthur hoped his last memory of Merlin wasn’t going to be embittered by rejection.

“Maybe you should ask him,” Gwen ventured uncertainly. She seemed concerned.

“I can’t ask him,” Arthur said, perhaps a little more forcefully than he meant to. “It’s his decision, I shouldn’t push.”

Gwen gave Lancelot a pointed look and he sighed, stepping closer to place his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “We’ve seen the way he looks at you,” he began. Arthur huffed and tried to shrug Lancelot off, but he didn’t falter. “ _Ask him._ It’s important and he cares about you. He won’t be angry.”

Arthur rubbed his forehead and nodded; he knew they were right, but he didn’t want to force Merlin into telling him something which could make things difficult between them. He still felt as strongly about ordinary citizen’s rights to Avalon as he had on that very first day, and he didn’t want to let his people down.

****

Of course, Arthur did ask Merlin about Avalon, but he chose his moment very strategically. It was three days before the perfect chance presented itself; Merlin was sprawled on Arthur’s bed, naked and sated, and Arthur was stroking Merlin’s thigh and kissing along his hipbone. There was a wide smile stretched across Merlin’s lips and he was making soft, pleased sounds, his fingers brushing against the top of Arthur’s head.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured, his voice so low it was almost a hum. “Can I ask you a favour?”

“Anything,” Merlin sighed, shifting his hips to encourage Arthur to keep mouthing at him.

Arthur sucked a faint bruise into Merlin’s skin before pulling back and saying, as casually as he could, “Would you grant my subjects a path to Avalon? We’ve all been so _terribly_ good.”

Merlin gasped as Arthur ran light fingers up over his thigh and along the damp, warm crease of his groin. “That’s really not fair,” he panted, his muscles tightening beneath Arthur’s touch. “I’m in a difficult position.”

Arthur lifted himself up onto his hands and looked down Merlin’s body sceptically. “Looks pretty easy to me,” he said with a smirk. Merlin groaned and rolled his hips again.

“Arthur,” he whined, irritated and desperate. “Arthur, please.”

Arthur bent down and kissed him, rubbing his thigh against Merlin’s half-hard cock, but he didn’t part his lips when he felt Merlin’s tongue pushing at them. He pulled back instead, giving Merlin his best pout.

“ _Merlin,_ please?” he said, teasing. “I just need one little yes.”

Merlin laughed, the sound little more than a few shallow breaths of air, then he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and pushed himself up against Arthur.

“I can’t,” he mumbled, his fingers twisting into the blankets. “I really can’t.”

“You can’t?” Arthur repeated, all hints of playfulness dropping from his tone. He frowned down at Merlin, confused. “Why not?”

Merlin opened his eyes and blinked up at him, dazed. He huffed out a breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Arthur-” he tried after a moment, exasperation thick in his tone.

“You won’t, that’s what it is,” Arthur interrupted, pushing himself up and off Merlin. “It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you don’t want to.”

“No, Arthur, that’s not it!” Merlin said hurriedly. He sat up and covered himself with one of the blankets. “I want to but it’s not my decision.”

Arthur pulled back even further, drawing himself onto his knees at the very end of the bed, and tried to make sense of that. “It’s not your decision?” he said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Then whose decision is it? It’s certainly not mine. Is there some king of the Sidhe whose cock I should be sucking instead?”

“Careful, Arthur,” Merlin warned and Arthur bit his tongue.

He sighed and turned away from Merlin, getting slowly out of bed. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I’m just- I just don’t understand.”

Merlin threw the blanket off himself and got up as well, reaching for his breeches and pulling them on. “Well, if you want to do this now then you’d better get dressed,” he said, nodding at Arthur’s clothes. “Morgana needs to hear it too.”

Within half an hour, Arthur, Merlin and Morgana were sitting at a table in one of the castle’s smaller council chambers - the same council chamber, Arthur realised with a nervous jolt, that they had been sitting in when Merlin told them he couldn’t grant their wish the first time.

Merlin’s cheeks were a little flushed but his hair was flat (courtesy of Arthur’s persistent smoothing) and his red shirt didn’t look like it had spent most of the day on the floor - maybe just most of the afternoon. He smiled nervously at them both, fidgeting in obvious discomfort, and cleared his throat.

“The thing is,” he said, far less regal and proper than he had been the first time. “It’s not as simple as you think it is. Avalon has always been open just to those of high birth. It’s part of the magic that’s embedded in the life force of the Sidhe. It can’t be altered by reshuffling some parchment or writing a new spell.”

“We’re aware it could be difficult but we’re willing to comply with whatever’s necessary,” Morgana said, taking Arthur’s hand and looking at Merlin earnestly. “You know that.”

“Yes,” Merlin replied, vexed. “But gold and wheat and horses can’t pay for this request.”

Arthur sighed, pulling his hand away from Morgana and running it through his own hair. “Merlin, if you’re trying to say that you want to grant our people passage to Avalon but you think we can’t afford what the Sidhe demand then please, just tell us what it is. You never know, we might be able to find some way of paying it.”

Merlin bit his lip and closed his eyes, shaking his head in tiny, aborted movements. When he looked at Arthur again, there were tears clinging to his lashes.

“I know you’ll pay it,” he croaked. “But I don’t know if I want you to.”

Arthur stared at him, waiting, and Merlin looked down at the table. He smiled, almost manic in his distress, and rubbed his eyes. “You’re such a prat,” he breathed, his voice thick, and then, “The life of a mortal prince - that’s what’s required. A mortal prince must willingly sacrifice himself on the shores of Avalon. There’s no other way.”

There was a sharp intake of breath to Arthur’s right - Morgana. He didn’t look at her, he couldn’t. He stared at Merlin’s tear-streaked face, then down at his own hands. They were clasped together, pale against the polished wooden table top, and Arthur studied them closely. He took in the chips in his nails, the hard, rough pads of his fingers, the slight crease and wrinkle of his skin. Those hands were old hands, not the hands of the child who had cried in his maid’s arms or the hands of the prince who had led beautiful young ladies into dances at Court.

Arthur saw his whole life played out in the curve of his fingers and the lines of his palms - all the swords he had swung, all the battles he had won, all the faces he had cupped and the patterns he had traced into soft skin. He saw the last time his father had clasped his hand and the way Morgana had squeezed his fingers the morning before he announced that he was lifting the ban on magic. Arthur saw the way Merlin’s mouth had kissed along his knuckles under warm candlelight, and how Morgana’s magic had curled around his wrists on the training field.

“A mortal prince,” Arthur said softly, looking up into Merlin’s eyes. “Would they a take a king instead?”

“Arthur,” Morgana breathed, and Arthur glanced over to see that she was crying, too. “Arthur, no.”

“I have to,” he said, feeling surprisingly calm. “It’s the only way.”

The rest of the meeting passed in a haze for Arthur. He listened to Morgana argue, first with him for abandoning his kingdom and then with Merlin - demanding to know what difference one death would make if the magic was really that strong. She was angry and frightened and Merlin just kept apologising, mumbling sorry over and over as if it was a spell that could unmake the truth. Their distress didn’t touch Arthur; his path was suddenly clear.

“Morgana, the kingdom does not need me like it once did,” he said at last.

“That’s not true!” Morgana exclaimed, slamming her fist down onto the table. “Just because things run smoothly when you skip council meetings for a week, it doesn’t mean that you’re not needed.”

“I know,” Arthur said, smiling at her. “But when the council isn’t enough, you’ll be here.”

Morgana shook her head, fresh tears streaming down her face. “Don’t,” she breathed, her lip quivering. “Arthur, don’t.”

“You’re so ready,” Arthur told her, some of the warmth and pride in his chest bleeding into his voice. “You’ve been ready since the day I took the throne.”

Morgana kept shaking her head but Arthur turned away, looking at Merlin. “You said you would stay until the end of the summer. Leave after Calan Gaeaf and I’ll come with you.”

Merlin nodded, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed from crying.

“Right,” Arthur said, smiling at Merlin as well. “That’s that, then.”

****

That night, Merlin kissed Arthur with a desperate, wild abandon more intense than ever before. He bracketed Arthur’s hips with his knees and his head with his hands, pushing him firmly down into the bed and rubbing their bodies together as they kissed, breathing unevenly through his nose just so he could push his tongue a little further into Arthur’s mouth.

“Relax,” Arthur whispered when Merlin eventually pulled back for air. He rubbed his hands up and down Merlin’s ribs, soothing him through his thin shift. “You’re the only one I’m not leaving.”

Merlin kissed Arthur again, still forceful and frantic. “Yes, but you’re still going to die,” he murmured. “I’ve never died.”

“Am I going to lose something of myself?” Arthur asked, keeping his voice hushed. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No,” Merlin shook his head and bent down to kiss Arthur’s chest. “You’ll be the same as you are now, it’s just- It’s an odd thought, you leaving this place forever.”

“I’m not just leaving it, I’m saving it,” Arthur said, planting a kiss on Merlin’s forehead.

Merlin bit his lip to stifle a smile, looking at Arthur like he was the most precious thing in all of Albion and Avalon combined. Then he went back to his fevered kissing and grinding, making them both sweat in the hot, dry air.

Telling the Court about his decision did not seem like a sensible move to Arthur. Morgana knew, Lancelot and Guinevere would know soon, and his most trusted advisors had been informed. That was enough. Agravaine was the one who stood by as witness while Arthur wrote up his final declaration and sealed it with the Pendragon crest - not to be opened until after his death. When Arthur handed over the scroll with a brazen grin, Agravaine hesitated for a few seconds, then pulled Arthur into a hug. Arthur huffed, not overly surprised, and patted Agravaine companionably.

“I would tell you to look after her but we both know she won’t need it,” he said, not having to use Morgana’s name for Agravaine to know who he meant.

“She won’t,” Agravaine agreed. “But I’ll try anyway.”

July ended in much the same way as it had begun. Arthur and Merlin stole books from Geoffrey’s library and spent whole days reading them, either in the shade of the willow in the royal gardens or on the bed in Merlin’s chambers. They also joined Morgana, Gwen and Lancelot for picnics at the edge of the forest. Sometimes, the other knights accompanied them too. They would sit and cheer as Elyan and Gwaine or Leon and Percival had sword fights with old sticks. Once or twice, Merlin invited Will and Mordred along, and they sat at the very edge of the group, speaking in low whispers and kissing when they thought no one was looking.

The sight of Will’s hand settled so gently on Mordred’s stomach made something warm flood through Arthur. He immediately turned to look for Merlin, finding him sitting cross-legged on the other side of Morgana, talking animatedly with Gwaine. Arthur smiled, wondering if the obvious, doting affection on Will’s face was the same expression their friends saw Arthur make when he was with Merlin.

As August began, bringing with it the hottest, brightest days of the year, Arthur felt the sting of his approaching loss for the first time - he would never spend another summer in Camelot. The city was more than just its houses and streets to Arthur; the castle was more than just the walls Arthur had grown up between and the stairs he climbed every day; Camelot was more than just stone and mortar, more than an idea, it was everything. Camelot was what Arthur had lived and breathed for his whole life. Since he was a boy, not a day had passed when Arthur had not tried to honour and improve his beloved kingdom. He was ready to die to save it, he had always been ready for that, but he wasn’t sure if he could ever be ready to leave it. Merlin had said something once about the people in Avalon losing everything they had ever cared for - now, Arthur could understand what that meant.

These were the thoughts running through Arthur’s head as he stood up at one of the grand feasts in August and told the Court that the Sidhe had agreed to grant their request. After waiting for the excited chatter to subside, Arthur announced that he would be accompanying Merlin back to the Lake of Avalon after Calan Gaeaf to complete the discussions on the treaty. Afterwards, he gathered Lancelot, Guinevere and his closest knights in an antechamber beside the Great Hall, and told them the truth.

The knights all bowed their heads, showing their love and respect in not arguing with their king. Gwen burst into tears, wrapped him up in the tightest hug she could manage, and whispered her thanks over and over into his ear. They all understood why he was doing this so readily; if Arthur didn’t go with Merlin and leave Camelot forever, then none of his friends would ever reach Avalon. By saying goodbye now, when it still seemed as though they had so much life left, Arthur was ensuring that they would have an eternity in safety and happiness.

“We’ll be reunited one day,” he said, slipping out of Gwen’s grasp and directing her towards Lancelot. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

“I’d never thought I’d say it, but you’re a good man, Arthur Pendragon,” Gwaine huffed. The other knights turned to her, eyebrows raised, and Percival whistled to show his astonishment.

“It’s almost worth dying just to hear you say that,” Arthur laughed, making Gwaine grin.

They stayed up late that night, all sitting together on the battlements, drinking wine and mead that Will had brought from the kitchens and watching as the stars slowly faded into a blue, early morning sky. Arthur watched the sun rise over Camelot, listening to his knights recount old stories of hunts and patrols. Gwen’s soft, warm hand clutched his all night, and he knew, beyond all doubt, that if this was his fate, he had the courage to face it.

****

August drifted by day by day despite how desperately Arthur clung to the fraying edges of sunlight each time evening crept over Camelot. The sweltering heat of midsummer began to cool, the dawn started to come a few treasured minutes later, and the soft summer breeze strengthened into winds that made the flag fly high and proud over the keep. Preparations for Calan Gaeaf began in the final week of the month. Arthur led them as best he could, drawing up plans for the layout of the festival ground and discussing what food was required with the head cook.

It was much the same as Calan Mai had been, with a large cauldron at the centre of a circle of spectators. A stage was built up again, ready for another battle between winter and summer, and Morgana performed spells on the candles which were to be dotted throughout the grass, enchanting the flames to glow white and silver instead of red. Merlin was at Arthur’s side for much more of the process this time. He asked questions every now and then, and even helped the servants carry the chest of winter crowns out from the castle with a weightlessness spell.

Rather than the excitement he had felt as things came together for Calan Mai, Arthur felt nothing but foreboding as each chair was set down in formation and every rope of May flowers was replaced by one heavy with dried holly. By the time the last night of August arrived and the Court made its way out of the castle at dusk, Arthur’s shoulders were so drawn with tension that they ached. He didn’t say a word as they took their seats in the front row, not even able to listen to Merlin’s whispered descriptions of how Calan Gaeaf was celebrated in Ealdor.

The fire in the cauldron was white the same as the candles. It gave out strange breaths of coldness instead of heat. Arthur’s fingers gripped hard at the wooden armrests of his chair as he watched summer and winter fight again on the makeshift stage. The colours of summer’s dress were duller now - her bright greens and yellows replaced by burnt orange and dark red. Winter looked far grander than he had at Calan Mai, with his costume no longer shredded but whole and gleaming in the pale light of the fire. His cheeks were painted with a silver sheen and his eyes were such a light blue that they seemed almost grey.

Arthur felt sick watching winter cast fresh, green ferns and thick bouquets of flowers into the cauldron. Each sacrifice sent a chilling wave of magic over the crowd. He knew Merlin was looking at him, he could feel the weight of his gaze and see the crease of his brow in the corner of his vision. Arthur didn’t dare glance over, instead he stared, unseeing, at the performance in front of him. He managed to clap when it had finished, but only because he was following Morgana’s lead.

Merlin’s hand on Arthur’s thigh and his voice at Arthur’s ear startled him out of his nauseous stupor. The servants were clearing away the stage and everyone around them was engaged in quiet conversation.

“Do you want to leave?” Merlin whispered. “We don’t have to stay.”

Arthur looked at him, feeling trapped and panicked by the crowd. “I shouldn’t,” he gritted out, barely able to keep his breathing even.

“That doesn’t matter,” Merlin muttered, pulling back a little bit and giving Arthur a worried look. “You shouldn’t be somewhere you’re not comfortable, not tonight.”

Arthur swallowed. This was his last night in Camelot, his final duty as king, and he couldn’t face it. He needed quiet.

Arthur nodded, wide-eyed and tense, and Merlin leant past him to tap Morgana.

“We’re going inside,” he said quietly. Morgana took one look at Arthur and nodded.

“I think you should,” she whispered back.

With that, Merlin nudged Arthur’s arm to make him stand and then got to his feet as well, angling Arthur back towards the castle and following him through the scattering of seated nobles. Arthur was grateful for this small mercy; he didn’t want his people’s last image of him to be as a pale, sickly man being guided slowly away from them.

Morgana’s voice trickled up from the festival ground as Arthur and Merlin made their way up to the castle. She announced that the king and the prince needed to rest before their long journey. Arthur smiled weakly at Merlin and reached for his hand, wanting to be led now that they were out of sight. Merlin took him across the courtyard, through the entrance hall and up familiar stairs to the royal chambers. Once they were inside, Merlin mumbled a few words and the candles around the room came to life. A small fire started crackling in the hearth.

“That wasn’t doing you any good,” Merlin said, locking the door by hand and approaching Arthur slowly. “I think it’s best if we stay here.”

Arthur nodded again, staring into the fire and trying to calm the shivers running up his arms.

“You’re frightened,” Merlin murmured, coming to a stop just a foot or so away from Arthur. “I understand. If you want me to leave, I will, I promise.”

Arthur grabbed Merlin’s wrist, not wanting him to go. He shook his head, then grimaced when Merlin breathed a sigh of relief.

“Tell me something,” Arthur said, his voice low and his throat dry. “Is my mother there? Is she waiting for me?”

“Arthur, I-” Merlin started to say, lifting his fingers to brush across Arthur’s cheek.

“Don’t say you can’t tell me,” Arthur ordered, still hardly more than a whisper. “Merlin, just say it. Is she there?”

Merlin took a deep breath, his eyes raking over Arthur’s face. He cupped his hand to Arthur’s jaw and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “She is.”

Arthur deflated; his shoulders sunk and he closed his eyes. Calm spread through him, easing the sickness in his stomach and the heavy beating of his heart. He had wanted to ask Merlin for so long but he had been too afraid of the answer. He hadn’t wanted to imagine the alternative if all the minstrels had been wrong and Ygraine had not made it to Avalon.

“She came to me before I left,” Merlin said, a smile in his voice. Arthur opened his eyes to look at him. “She knew I was coming to see you and she wanted me to tell you how much she missed you.”

Arthur’s next inhale was ragged and thick. He bit down on his lip but couldn’t hold back the tears that were blossoming in the corners of his eyes. He blinked through them, sending a few rolling down his cheek onto Merlin’s palm, and then he felt lips against his. Arthur opened up for Merlin’s kiss and the last dregs of tension faded from his muscles. He wrapped his arms around Merlin’s waist, letting himself be absorbed by the contact and claimed by Merlin’s tongue.

Somehow, Arthur found himself on the bed, lying across the blankets with Merlin over him, licking the salt of his tears from along his jaw and down his neck.

“Arthur. Arthur, I love you,” Merlin murmured, over and over in a soft, soothing rhythm that made Arthur want to close his eyes and exist forever with just the sound of Merlin’s voice surrounding him.

From then, there was nothing but touch and taste, hot breaths panted into the hollow of Arthur’s neck and the smell of Merlin’s sweat as he pulled his shirt over his head and cast it aside. They moved against each other, steady and warm, as though they had all the time in the world. Arthur mumbled his true feelings into Merlin’s hair, repeating one ‘I love you’ for every time he had thought it over the past two months.

It was only when they were both naked, their skin gleaming with sweat and their hips bruising as they pushed together, clumsy, that Arthur gasped out what he wanted against the shell of Merlin’s ear.

“Fuck me tonight,” he said and Merlin groaned, pulling up and gazing at Arthur, his eyelids heavy.

Merlin reached for the oil beneath Arthur’s pillow and handed it to him, sitting back on his knees and watching as Arthur slicked his fingers and prepared himself. He was shaking again, but this time it was from need rather than nerves. Arthur moaned at the slide of his own fingers inside him, pushing in easily thanks to the thick spread of oil around his hole. Merlin kissed Arthur’s face as he began to buck his hips, working in a second and then a third finger. He started at Arthur’s forehead, tender and reverent, then kissed his eyelids and his cheekbones, sucking gently at his earlobe before slipping his tongue between Arthur’s lips one last time.

An urgent hand pushing his knee was all it took for Arthur to let his legs fall open. Merlin settled between them, grabbing the jar of oil and slicking his cock as Arthur slid his fingers out of himself and reach up to grasp the pillow beneath his head. The first stroke was slow and incredibly gentle. Merlin’s fingers bracketed Arthur’s hips, feather-light against his burning skin. When Arthur whimpered, needy and encouraging, Merlin pulled out and snapped his hips a little harder.

Arthur writhed under Merlin, gasping every time he hit that golden spot and tightening his thighs around Merlin’s waist, pulling him closer. Eventually, when it sounded like Merlin was getting close, Arthur lifted his foot and nudged Merlin off. He looked startled as he pulled out, but his expression slipped into one of understanding very quickly as Arthur shifted over, making room for Merlin to lie down.

Then Arthur was on his knees, straddling Merlin’s lap and reaching back to angle his cock inside again. He sighed, content, as he slid down onto Merlin, watching him closely as he began to move, riding Merlin in fast, unwavering strokes. Merlin’s eyebrows were drawn together, his eyes were squeezed shut, and he was making the same quiet, aborted sound every time Arthur rose high enough to push against the grip Merlin had on his hips.

They both came like that; Arthur on Merlin’s cock, his own hand stroking himself through his orgasm, and Merlin with Arthur tightening around him, his fingers digging into Arthur’s thighs and his stomach wet with Arthur’s come. There was a long gap afterwards where neither of them moved. They just stared at each other, panting and listened to the faint sound of music drifting up from outside. Once the muscles in Arthur’s thighs started to cramp, he slipped off Merlin’s cock and settled beside him, entwining their fingers on the pillow between them.

“What did it feel like?” Arthur mumbled at last. “When you set the dragon free?”

Merlin smiled. “Like flying,” he said, the light from the candles reflecting in his eyes. “It was like tasting something I had missed for so long, I could hardly remember its name. There was a deep well of peacefulness, of relief, but also this sort of bursting, boiling surge of excitement. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Arthur nodded, staring at their interlocking fingers. “Was it your magic that let you feel that?” he asked, curiosity stirring deep inside him.

“Sort of,” Merlin said, his voice hushed. It was as though he was frightened of breaking Arthur, or scaring him away. “I think mostly it was because I’m a dragonlord. We have a stronger connection with the dragons than anyone else.”

“Merlin-” Arthur began, biting his lip and trying to muster up enough courage for the question he was dying to ask. “Merlin, do you know if I’ll lose my magic once I’m in Avalon?”

Merlin’s smile turned soft and affectionate. He squeezed Arthur’s fingers and shook his head. “You won’t lose it,” he whispered. “If anything, it’ll be stronger.”

At that, Arthur smiled as well. Coming to peace with his own hint of power had been one of the final steps in Arthur finding peace with all that he had done in his life. Part of him had suspected, after seeing Merlin’s joy at Kilgharrah’s release, that the magic which had borne him was what made the threads tying him and Merlin together so strong. Arthur’s magic had given him those precious seconds with the unicorn; he wondered if that day it had given him Merlin as well.

“Celia was to be crowned the winter queen,” Arthur said after a few minutes. “And her stable boy was the king - I never did learn his name.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I hear they’re engaged.”

“The wedding’s next month,” Arthur sighed. He tightened his grip on Merlin’s hand. “I’m sorry you had to miss the dancing.”

Merlin turned his face into the pillow to muffle his laughter. “Arthur,” he said. “Do you really think I’d rather be there than here?”

Arthur shrugged, then darted forwards to kiss Merlin’s nose, his cheek, his lips. It was gentle and perfect, and Arthur couldn’t quite believe how happy he felt after the anxiety that had been running through him for days.

“I wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway,” Merlin admitted, a little sheepish. “Sitting around making idle chatter while I knew that you were up here, alone.”

Arthur felt as though a bubble of sharp, inexorable emotion was moments from bursting in his chest. “I don’t want to sleep,” he breathed, watching Merlin carefully.

Merlin huffed, wrapped Arthur up in his arms and whispered into his hair, “Then don’t.”


	10. Chapter 10

The morning came, pale, harsh and as beautiful as any other. Arthur woke to birdsong and the low bustle of servants in the courtyard, already busy clearing away the mess from Calan Gaeaf. Arthur lay still, blinking slowly and letting himself soak up the warm comfort of his bed. It took him several seconds to remember that this was the last time he would ever lie in it.

The sudden realisation made Arthur sit bolt upright. Merlin was on the other side of the room, dressed in nothing but breeches.

“How’re you feeling?” he said, soft and concerned.

“Not great,” Arthur replied, his muscles returning to their familiar tenseness. “I fell asleep.”

“You did,” Merlin agreed, smiling. “Not long after you swore you wouldn’t, actually. I didn’t, though.”

Arthur looked up at him sharply. “You didn’t sleep?”

Merlin shrugged. “Not much,” he sighed. “You should get up, it’ll be breakfast soon.”

“Has George been in?” Arthur asked, sliding to the edge of the bed and groaning as he stretched, his muscles clicking. He got to his feet and went in search of something to cover himself, eventually finding some crumpled breeches under the bed.

“No, but I expect he’ll be along any moment,” Merlin said. He was holding his shirt from the night before, his eyes flashing gold as he tried to work out the creases with magic.

Right on cue, there was a short, hard knock at the door. Arthur glanced at Merlin, still absorbed by his shirt, then padded over to undo the latch. George rushed in, his arms full of fresh linens, and didn’t so much as bat an eyelid at the sight of Merlin and Arthur, both half naked and sleep-ruffled. He hurried across the room and started packing the linens away into a cupboard.

“Good morning, sire,” he said, bowing at Arthur once his hands were free. Then, after a slight hesitation, he addressed Merlin as well, “Good morning.”

“George,” they replied in unison, nodding at him, and Arthur almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. Merlin was smirking - something Arthur was just about to berate him for - when William tore into the room. He banged through the door, pushing it so violently that it hit Arthur.

“Merlin!” Will cried, skidding to a halt beside the bed and dropping a pile of fresh clothes onto the messy blankets. “I brought your, um, garments.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and shut the door. Merlin was looking at Will with raised eyebrows. “Thanks,” he said. “Which _garments_ are they?”

Will frowned. “White shirt,” he said, glancing between Arthur, Merlin and George with a somewhat irate expression. “That brown jerkin you like. It’s a bit nippy today.”

“Nippy?” Arthur said, indignant. “Summer only ended a few hours ago.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, sire,” Will muttered, sarcastic. “Just trying to be prepared.”

“I’m sure that’ll be fine, thank you, Will,” Merlin interrupted before Arthur could argue back. “Have you packed all your things as well?”

Will sighed, not meeting Merlin’s eye. “Actually,” he began slowly, his expression pained. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I think- I think I’m gonna stay here.”

Merlin blinked, taken aback. Arthur cleared his throat and shuffled over to the other side of the room, uncomfortable with his position between them.

“What?” Merlin said, his voice quiet.

“I’m staying here,” Will repeated. He looked guilty but determined. “It’s just- there’s Mordred, y’know? And I was never really meant to be with the Sidhe, anyway. They never wanted me there. Here, with Mordred, at least I’m-”

Merlin nodded, lifting his hand to silence Will. “I understand,” he said and his gaze flicked briefly towards Arthur. “I’m really going to miss you.”

Will smiled, lopsided and earnest. “I know, I’ll miss you too. But hey! With this new arrangement you’re organising, maybe I’ll be good enough to come back again.”

Merlin laughed but the sadness in his eyes didn’t lift. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

Just then, George tapped Arthur’s arm and held up his red shirt and brown leather jerkin, ready to dress him. Arthur turned, letting George help him into his clothes, and by the time they were finished, Will had gone. Merlin was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots with his back to Arthur.

George gathered up Arthur’s dirty clothes and made to leave, but Arthur grabbed his arm.

“George,” he said. He felt awkward and strange, but George had seen to his every need since he came of age, and he deserved a farewell. “You’re a brilliant manservant. Thank you for everything that you’ve done for me. I know I’m not always easy to please.”

George dipped his head. “I’m honoured to serve my king, sire.”

“Yeah,” Arthur waved his hand, dismissing George’s formalities. “Just look after yourself, alright?”

A puzzled expression passed across George’s face. He glanced over his shoulder at Merlin, then looked back at Arthur. “I’ll see you when you return, sire.” he said.

“When I return,” Arthur agreed, letting go of George’s arm and watching him leave the room. “Right.”

As soon as he was fully dressed, Merlin muttered something about saying goodbye to Gwaine and left. Arthur let him go; his cheeks were flushed and there was a soft hint of redness around his eyes. They would have all afternoon to talk about Will, if that was what Merlin wanted, and Arthur had his own business to see to before breakfast.

A few minutes after Merlin had gone, Arthur opened the door, glanced back into his chambers for the last time, and then stepped out into the castle corridor. He made his way to Morgana’s chambers in a state of reverie; he felt incredibly awake, incredibly _alive,_ his senses so heightened that he seemed to hear every sound in the castle and notice the rough abrasions and marks in every brick he passed. And yet, somehow, when he reached the door to Morgana’s rooms and tapped his knuckles against the wood, Arthur could hardly remember how he got there.

Morgana did not look surprised to see him when she opened the door. She stepped back without a word, letting Arthur into her chambers. The room was bright and clean, lit by the fresh morning sunlight. Everything in Morgana’s rooms had always been neat and tidy, Arthur realised as he gazed around; the furniture was always lined up at perfect angles and there was never so much as a stray hairpin left on show. Perhaps Celia was a better handmaiden than Arthur had suspected - more dedicated and skilled in her work than the shy, blushing girl he had dismissed her to be.

“How’re you feeling?” Morgana asked. Her voice was quiet and tense, and she was watching Arthur very closely.

“A bit out of sorts,” Arthur huffed, grinning shakily. “It’s so surreal.”

“You know you don’t have to-” Morgana began, determined and urgent, but Arthur stopped her with a shake of his head.

“You know I do,” he said, tired and resigned. “I’m not here to ask you to convince me to stay, I just-” here, Arthur took a deep breath, struggling to accept the magnitude of the morning. “I wanted a chance to speak alone before breakfast, so that we could just be Arthur and Morgana.”

“Not a king and a High Priestess?” Morgana prompted, the understanding in her gaze almost piercing.

Arthur shrugged. His limbs felt heavy. “Not a king and a queen,” he corrected.

Morgana looked down at her hands where they were twisting anxiously in her dress. It was soft and pale green, its many layers so thin that they shifted under the slightest movement or gust of air. Arthur’s eyes traced the elegant folds of Morgana’s skirts, the gentle curve of thicker fabric at her waist, and a distant memory returned to him; strolling through the entrance hall with Morgana one crisp spring morning, laughing as she made lists of the councillors eccentricities, catching a slip of pale green fabric in his fingers and declaring that she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her in that dress.

It might have been a coincidence, but the choking affection stirring in Arthur’s chest knew better than to chalk Morgana’s clothing choices up to chance. Once, he had said this was his favourite dress - a passing comment in a stream of conversation - and now here she was, wearing it on their last morning together.

Arthur coughed to clear his throat, a flush creeping up his neck, and said, “You’ll be a brilliant queen, I know it.”

Morgana gave him a weak smile. “But there’s so much that I must-”

“ _Morgana,_ ” Arthur interrupted, his tone earnest. “You’re going to do great things. I know it won’t be easy - some of the lords might challenge your right to the throne, you’ll have to start taking more interest in the knights’ training, the laws prohibiting magical crimes will have to be strengthened - but I believe in you. I always have.”

“Thank you,” Morgana said after a brief pause, her voice little more than a whisper.

Arthur took her arm, guiding her to his side, and covered her hand with his. “Shall we go down to breakfast?”

Morgana nodded. “Just one more thing, Arthur,” she said as he reached for the door. Arthur turned to look at her and she swallowed visibly. “I didn’t say anything before but, since you explained on the training grounds, I understand that everything you’ve done for magic over the years must have been difficult, and I want to thank you. I know you did it for me, don’t pretend otherwise, and as angry as your lies made me, I forgive you. Your sense of justice prevailed over your fears and doubts - that is proof enough that you are a great king. It is actions that make the man, Arthur, and you chose the right course as best you could. Uther could not have asked for a better son.”

Arthur tightened his grip on her fingers and dipped his head. He had no way of acknowledging that - of showing Morgana how much it truly meant to him, but he thought she probably knew. Instead, he just reached for the door and led her out of her chambers.

Breakfast proved to be very difficult. Arthur had never felt less like eating in his entire life and the silence didn’t help matters. Once or twice, Lancelot tried to start a conversation - asking Gwen about the orphanage or Morgana about the sorcerers she was training, but neither of them gave answers longer than a few words. Eventually, in desperation, he turned to Merlin, who was pushing a lump of cheese around his plate like he thought it might infect him if he got too close.

“How long is the journey?” was Lancelot’s question.

“Two days,” Merlin said. When he looked up to see Lancelot still staring at him, imploring, he elaborated. “I think first we’ll take the road to a little village on the border, Ealdor, and then we’ll head to the lake tomorrow.”

Merlin turned to Arthur, jittery and nervous, and said. “Would that be alright? I don’t know when I’ll get the chance again. I haven’t seen my mother for so long.”

Arthur bit off a chunk of bread and chewed it. It seemed bland and tasteless and he regretted it immediately. “That’s fine,” he said when he could speak again. “It’d be nice to learn a bit more about my prince’s humble beginnings.”

“Your prince?” Merlin asked, his eyes wide.

Arthur frowned. “Well, yes,” he said, looking around to see that the others were all as bewildered as Merlin. “You are prince of Avalon, aren’t you? And soon I’ll be Arthur of Avalon. You’ll be my prince.”

“Oh, of course,” Merlin mumbled. He went back to his food, blushing profusely.

A large part of the Court gathered to see them off. Some of Morgana’s sorcerers stood in formation on the steps outside the entrance hall, flanked by the knights of Camelot. The lords and ladies of the Court gathered behind them, waving coloured handkerchiefs and cheering. Morgana stood at the very front with Mordred on her right and Will beside him. Lancelot and Guinevere were also there, holding hands and smiling, tearful.

Arthur surveyed the group of people waiting to wave goodbye and his anxiety and nerves dissipated in the face of their joy and excitement. They didn’t know that this was the last time they would ever see their king, and he liked it best that way. He hoped it might teach them something; having the symbol around which they had built their vision of Camelot taken away. The city would remain, the Court would carry on as normal, and everyone would see that Arthur had never been any more important than they were. He was like any soldier; living and dying for the lives of others.

Two stallions were brought out and Arthur and Merlin’s belongings were loaded onto them by a few squires. The horses were strong, perhaps the finest Camelot had to offer, and Arthur was glad that he had ensured Morgana would send someone to Ealdor to retrieve them in a few days.

Merlin was standing on the steps talking to a few of the sorcerers. Arthur watched him for a short while, letting the tender blossom of love in his chest spread through his limbs until every single vein felt as though it was singing. Then he stepped forwards, towards Morgana, and wrapped his arms so tightly around her waist that he thought, distantly, it might bruise. Her arms locked around his neck and he lifted her up, spinning around with her small, solid form clutched to his chest. She laughed into his hair, the sound wobbly with tears, and Arthur thanked the stars for giving him this chance at a proper farewell. When he set her down again, he kissed her cheek.

“You’re my sister,” he whispered so that only she could hear. “And I would not be the man I am without you.”

Morgana wiped away the dampness beneath her eyes and laughed again, stronger this time. “Don’t remind me of my failures now.”

Arthur chuckled as well, brushing his thumb over her cheek to catch a tear she had missed, and backed away towards his horse. “You look after her!” he called to Mordred.

“As if she’ll need it,” Mordred replied, grinning.

Arthur nodded. “Well, try your best,” he said. “And if not, at least do as you’re told. You’re a great sorcerer, Mordred, and a fine knight.”

Mordred bit his lip and dipped his head, seemingly lost for words, then stepped forwards to wrap his arm around Morgana’s waist; comforting her. He shouted something to Merlin in the Druid tongue as he followed Arthur down the steps and across the courtyard. Merlin waved goodbye to the crowd as he climbed up onto his horse. Arthur did the same, and they made their way towards the gates of the courtyard.

“I expect they’re disappointed, not getting to see your unicorn one last time,” Arthur said over the cheering.

“I didn’t want to upstage you,” Merlin replied with a wink. “And she doesn’t take well to be loaded down with bags.”

Arthur shook his head, still smiling, and urged his horse forward, picking up the pace as they rode through the lower towns and past the battlements. When they reached the edge of the forest, Arthur stopped and stared back at the city where he had spent his whole life. It was gleaming gold and white in the morning sun, each turret and flag outlined clearly against the deep blue sky. It was an image Arthur knew he would carry in his heart forever.

Merlin waited in silence a little way up the path. His eyes were warm and loving when Arthur finally turned his horse towards him. They rode, side by side, into the trees, and Camelot was obscured from view.

****

After a while, Merlin’s lack of sleep began to show. His grip on the reins began to loosen, their conversation dropped to little more than a few words, and he almost sent his horse into a tree at one point. Finally, when Merlin fell into a light doze and almost slipped out of his saddle, Arthur took pity on him. They stopped at the side of the road and loaded all of their bags onto Merlin’s horse, then Merlin climbed up into the saddle behind Arthur. There shouldn’t have been enough room but a bit of magic fixed that.

Merlin gave Arthur vague instructions on how to find Ealdor; look for the Ridge of Ascetir, he said, before promptly falling asleep, his forehead resting just above Arthur’s shoulder blade and his hands limp on Arthur’s hips. It wasn’t a problem, really - Merlin’s soft breathing was more of a comfort than his incessant talking would usually be, and Arthur leant back into his weight just a little as he rode.

The sun was bright but there was a chilled edge to the air which warned of onrushing winter. Soon, the green leaves above their heads would turn rich shades of brown and orange, then fall to the ground, covering the path in a carpet of autumn beauty. Arthur looked around, thinking about how he would never see snowfall in these forests again; how he would never know the yield for this year’s harvest or watch new lambs skip through the fields in spring, and he was surprised to realise that he wasn’t sad anymore. He felt calm and at peace with the world around him, grateful for the time it had given him and eager to see what was next.

Would Avalon be mountainous, or consist of nothing but flat plains? Would it have secret caves and pockets of beach that still lay untouched, ready for Arthur to discover? Merlin hadn’t told him much and perhaps it was better that way. When it came to adventure, the unknown always excited Arthur. He had spent too much of his life planning every detail of expeditions and raids; he wanted the chance to go where his feet took him and learn his way without a map.

Merlin snuffled himself into wakefulness just as Ealdor began to appear through the trees. It was a very small village, smaller than Arthur had imagined, with only six or seven huts and little more than a rickety old fence to protect it. The few people who were out on Ealdor’s one street stopped dead when Arthur and Merlin rode in through the gate. One or two of them were carrying pails of water, others were making their way to the fields to work, but all were transfixed by the two stallions; their coats like glistening chestnut and their riders, resplendent in finely woven clothes.

“Who are you?” a forthright girl said loudly as Merlin dismounted. She was clutching a chicken and staring at the two of them like they were a unknown species of fungus she had dug out from under a rock.

Merlin took a few steps towards her. “Lizzie?” he asked, his voice pitching higher in surprise. “Is that you?”

“What’s it to you?” she snapped, retreating with her chicken clutched to her chest.

Merlin ignored her question, instead turning to Arthur and calling out, with a grin, “Arthur! This is Will’s sister!”

Arthur let out a bark of laughter as he slid from the saddle and dropped to his feet. “That explains a lot,” he said.

“How d’you know my brother?” Lizzie demanded, her tone accusatory.

Merlin’s expression turned soft. “He’s my best friend,” he explained. “I’m Merlin.”

A shout rang out across the village and Arthur turned to see a small, dark-haired woman staring at them from the threshold of one of the huts. “Merlin?” she was shouting. “Merlin!”

She rushed over, her grubby skirt flowing out behind her, and Merlin hurried forwards. They met halfway, wrapping their arms around each other in a desperate embrace. Arthur approached slowly, watching. Merlin was grinning when they pulled apart. The woman reached up and cupped his face, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mum,” Merlin sighed as Arthur drew level with them. He sounded so relieved that Arthur had half a mind to step back again, not wanting to interrupt.

“Mum, this is Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin said, reaching for Arthur’s wrist and pulling him closer. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “He’s the king of Camelot.”

Hunith raised her eyebrows, her expression somewhere between impressed and unconvinced. Arthur reached out his hand to shake hers. Her skin was rough and dry from a lifetime of use, but there was a soft, almost welcoming warmth to her touch which Arthur recognised as distinctly _Merlin._

“I’m really not as special as he thinks I am,” Arthur clarified, bowing once Merlin’s mother had curtsied. “It’s lovely to meet you, umm?”

“Hunith,” she supplied helpfully, looking back and forth between the two of them like she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

“Oi! Merlin! Where’s Will?” came Lizzie’s voice from behind them. She marched over, now chicken-free, and put her hands on her hips. She gave Arthur a disparaging look but she addressed Merlin. “Why did you bring him and not Will?”

Merlin tilted his head, frowning at her. “You were little more than five years old the last time I saw you,” he said. “And you haven’t changed much.”

“Where’s Will?”

“He lives in Camelot,” Merlin sighed, an odd mixture of exasperated and fond. “You should visit him some time. He’d like it.”

Hunith invited them into her hut - the hut where Merlin had been born and raised, Arthur realised as he ducked through the door. It was small and dark with a dirt floor and only two windows, but the atmosphere was homely and comfortable. A familiar smell caught Arthur’s attention and he noticed two bundles of dried lavender hanging over the hearth. Affection and understanding burgeoned in Arthur’s chest as he remembered the lavender in Merlin’s rooms back in Camelot. He couldn’t help but smile. Merlin gave him a quizzical look as they settled onto three stools at the low wooden table.

They sat there for hours. Arthur listened as Hunith asked Merlin question after question about his life; she wanted to know if they were kind to him in Avalon, if he was happy, what duties he had. Merlin answered everything plainly, not appearing to hold anything back, but he didn’t tell his mother much more than he had told Arthur about Avalon.

It felt far more natural than Arthur had expected. Merlin’s shoulders were loose and relaxed, his smile was broad and open, his fingers lay on the table without thrumming or tension. As he studied Merlin’s face, Arthur began to see where these small changes had come from; Merlin was home. This was where he truly belonged - or, at least, where he believed he belonged. After so many years apart, Arthur might have expected to see a distance between Merlin and Hunith; a gap in their knowledge of each other, a break in their connection, but he saw no such thing. Hunith’s hand stroked over Merlin’s arm, gentle and loving, and Arthur watched, feeling so very alone.

He wondered, his attention fading from their conversation and drifting into the following day, if seeing his mother again would be the same. Merlin had said that she was waiting for him, and Arthur prayed that it was true. He wondered if Ygraine would be glad that he was with her or angry that his life had ended so soon. He wanted to tell her about Morgana, about how, as they had grown, she had been like a mother to him. He wanted to tell her about the bubble of magic he had felt in his chest and how it meant he could tame a unicorn. He wanted to tell her all of the reasons why he had chosen to die.

“When will you be able to visit again?” Hunith was asking when Arthur tore himself away from his daydream. “It’s been so long.”

Merlin looked away from her, guilty and sad. “I don’t know,” he admitted, shrugging.

“Well, can’t you stay a little long? Do you have to leave tomorrow?” Hunith’s tone was urgent and her fingers tightened on Merlin’s arm.

“Sorry, Mum, we have to go,” Merlin said, resting his hand on hers. “But it’s for a good cause! Arthur’s doing something very important.”

Hunith turned to Arthur, seeming startled by the reminder that he was still there. She surveyed him uncertainly and asked, “And what something is that?”

Arthur felt heat prickle across his cheeks and along his shoulders. He shook his head, smiling a little desperately, and looked down at the table. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m- I’m just...”

“Nothing?” Merlin repeated, his eyebrows raised. “It’s not nothing. Arthur is making it so that ordinary people can go to Avalon when they die, not just kings and queens.”

“You’re not,” Hunith whispered, her eyes widening in the same way Merlin’s always did when he was surprised.

Arthur nodded. “I am.”

Hunith’s eyes filled with tears and before Arthur could react, she had leant across the table and wrapped her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. Merlin sat back and watched, laughing into his hand at the astonishment on Arthur’s face.

“You don’t realise what this means, do you?” Hunith said when she let go and saw Arthur’s blush. “It gives us hope. It means that I know I can see Merlin again, even if he can’t visit. It means we ordinary folk have the comfort of seeing our parents again one day - or our children.”

“I, umm, I thought it was only fair-” Arthur began, oddly embarrassed by her gratitude. Hunith took his face in her hands and smiled at him. The warmth in her eyes was overpowering.

“You are unlike any king I have ever heard of,” she said, full of sincerity and pride. “No one will ever forget this, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur thanked her, at a loss for what to say. She let go of him and went back to questioning Merlin, but the feeling of her hands cupping his face and the strength of her words did not leave Arthur all night.

****

A small boy accompanied them to the lake the next day. It was a long ride; they didn’t leave Ealdor until late morning and the sun had passed its peak by the time Merlin lifted his hand, signalling for Arthur to slow down. The boy climbed off Merlin’s horse with surprising agility and skill for someone so small, and waited for Merlin to unload his saddlebags before climbing back up again.

Arthur left his own bags on the horse - not just food and spare boots but a dagger and his sword. He ran his fingers over the metal one last time, admiring the cold, clean blade and the fine craftsmanship around the hilt, then he led his horse over and tied it behind Merlin’s. The boy watched them in silence, blinking at Arthur in awe, and Arthur did his best to muster up a smile.

“You won’t be back until late,” Arthur said to him. He had light blond hair and a wide, flat nose. “Will you be alright?”

“My father will meet me,” the boy replied, his voice quiet but sure. He couldn’t have been older than seven. “I play in these woods often, m’lord.”

The boy glanced at Merlin, looking for reassurance, and Merlin smiled at him, nodding. “Thank you for your help,” he said.

Arthur reached for one of his bags and undid the strings, pulling it open just far enough for the boy to see a bundle of his spare shirts inside. “You can have what’s in this bag,” Arthur told him, looking into his eyes to make sure he understood. “They’re fine shirts. You’ll grow into them.”

They boy nodded, still looking a little frightened, and Arthur re-tied the bag. Merlin patted his horse and it plodded slowly back the way they had come, disappearing into the trees with Arthur’s behind it. A daze came over Arthur as he watched them go which only broke when he felt Merlin’s fingers slip between his.

“Are you ready?” he murmured.

Arthur looked at him but their faces were so close, he could hardly focus on Merlin’s feature. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

Merlin smiled, so understanding and sad that it was barely a smile at all. “Come on,” he said in the same, hushed tone, and led Arthur through the last hundred feet of trees.

The forest came almost to the waters edge on all sides of lake and roots dipped down beneath the still surface in several places. The water looked golden, reflecting the yellow of the leaves as the sun shone through them, and Arthur was struck by its beauty. It seemed the colours of Avalon might be those of summer, after all, and not the cold, pale blue that so many poems described. If this was the gateway to the Afterkingdom, then perhaps it truly was paradise.

Merlin was still holding Arthur’s hand. He tugged on it lightly, drawing Arthur’s attention, and pulled him in for a soft, yearning kiss. Arthur kissed back, feeling tears begin to build behind his eyes and wanting Merlin to know how glad he was that they had met; how glad he was that they were meant for each other. Knowing that he would have Merlin on the other side was one of the few things holding Arthur together, and there, at the edge of the lake with the water lapping at his boots, he was clinging to it almost as desperately as he clung to Merlin’s hand.

“What do I have to do?” Arthur mumbled when they broke apart. He didn’t want to stop kissing, not ever, but he knew that he couldn’t wait much longer. He had to do this now.

Merlin sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his face; he was close to tears, too.

“There’s a spell,” he said, his voice thick. “You have to come into the water with me and hold my hands while I say it.”

Arthur nodded. He pulled his hand free of Merlin’s and carefully removed the silver ring from his thumb; it had been his mother’s, given to him by his father. Arthur had worn it every single day for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t need it anymore - he would be seeing her soon. After a few deep breaths, Arthur set the ring down upon a rock and took Merlin’s hand again, letting himself be led into the water.

It was cold. Water spilt over the top of Arthur’s boots and drenched his breeches right up to his thighs. As he walked into the lake, breathing hard, Arthur thought about his father. He had given Arthur the magic that lived inside him but he had also taught him to hate it; he had made his son’s whole life a struggle. Arthur had ruled the kingdom in the way he thought it should be ruled but, as Merlin stopped him and turned to take both his hands, Arthur wondered if his father would have agreed with much of what he had done. He told himself that yes, Uther would have seen the goodness in this Camelot, because any other answer was too painful.

Merlin began to chant, low and lyrical like when he had broken the dragon’s chains, and Arthur closed his eyes. He could still remember his father’s last words, whispered to Arthur from the darkness at the edge of death.

“I know you will make me proud, as you always have,” he had said.

Merlin’s chanting began to fade and Arthur felt a heavy weight inside him fall slowly backwards. For a few seconds which could have lasted a lifetime, Arthur was enclosed by coldness. Then he blinked, opened his eyes, and found himself somewhere new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would prefer to leave feedback on LiveJournal, [CLICK HERE](http://quitelikeit.livejournal.com/7885.html).


End file.
